Treasured Treasures
by compassrose7577
Summary: Jack and Kate are finally together, but happily ever after is certainly not in their future. Jack faces massive challenges, some we know about, and some we don't. Settle in. This continuation of NSNG will be just as long, and with as many suprises. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1: Pursuing Visitors

**Chapter One: Pursuing Visitors**

**Kate** woke with the feel of Jack's hand on her breast and her husband's kiss on her lips.

A soft rumble of thunder and a gusty breeze were the precursors of an impending storm, the cabin tilting as the _Black Pearl_ responded to a freshening wind. Hurried footsteps and shouts passed overhead as the watch made the necessary preparations for such weather, the absence of alarm in their voices saying that there was nothing to fear; all was well.

Another rumble, nearer and slightly louder, echoed across the water and into the hollows of the ship, followed by the patter of rain, starting in sporadic splops then quickly increasing to a steady shower.

In all probability, it was just a passing downpour, another one of the many mercurial storms that skipped across the Caribbean. They appeared and disappeared as if at the capricious whim of some Teutonic sea god, arriving either filled with viciousness, or naught but bluster and threat, delivering only a cool breeze, and barely enough rain to wet the decks. Most times the crew opted to leave their slickers in their lockers, on the speculation that the rain would pass before the gear could be donned.

As if riding on the crest of the storm, blown by the same whim, Brian had come to her, passing so fleetingly as to leave her believing he had been but a fragment of a fading dream. He had often visited her as such before, silently lingering, remote, present but unattainable. She longed to touch him, a feeling that had been denied for so very long.

_Are ye well, lass_?

Startled, Kate's eyes jerked open, searching the room in darting glances as a mist wafted through the port wind, swirling in the thin shaft of light. On his earlier visits, Brian had spoken before, but only from within. This time, his soft, deep voice resonated with a clarity that stirred the atmosphere.

Dismissing it as fantasy, Kate settled deeper into the coziness of her bunk, the mattress' coarse-woven cotton abrading her calves. Jack slept snugly behind her, his body bent to the shape of hers as his breath blew in warm drafts against her shoulder. With one arm curled over her side, his hand upturned on the bed to cup her breast, not in seduction, but simply because it seemed to belong there. Sensing her wakefulness, he stirred and drew her closer. Life had seemed determined to tear them apart, but they had found each other… finally. Now, they clung together, in constant unspoken fear of if the worst should happen: loss.

Kate curved a quieting hand under his, and stroked his knuckles, until he slumped back to sleep. She didn't want him awake—not yet. Just a bit more solitude was all she needed.

Jack was exhausted. Since they had left Crook Neck Bay, and their rendezvous with the _Griselle_, the _Black Pearl_ had been sailing hard. Jack had been evasive as to their destination, but he clearly had one in mind. Kate had found him staring at his compass several times, with a vaguely puzzled look, but the mysterious black box didn't seem to be the primary source of his preoccupation. Something else was haunting him.

The ship was short-handed, and so Jack had been drawing double watches, freeing up the _Pearl's_ other two helmsman, Gibbs and Cotton, for other duties. In the pre-dawn hours of that morning, he had appeared at the side of their berth, bleary-eyed and swaying. He barely took the time to shed his clothing, dropping them heedlessly at his feet, before crawling into bed and collapsing against her.

Kate had gathered him close, nestling his head into the crook of her shoulder, his hair redolent with the scent and damp of the same night air that had chilled his skin. She caressed his shoulders and back, tracing his curves and the small knobs of his spine in languorous passes. Like a runner crossing the finish line, he blew several long breaths, and then sagged as the warm flush of sleep had swept over him, his head growing heavy on her chest. The crew had been remarkably free of injury or illnesses, so there had been little else she could do to contribute to the well being of the _Black Pearl_. The least she could offer was to aid and comfort to the ship's precious captain.

The rain increased, its hammering on the decks drowning out all other sounds, including Jack's sleepy rasp at her ear.

Closing her eyes, Kate tried to re-summon Brian's face. Had he come to see that she was well? He had done what he could, for as many as he could, before he had allowed himself to be taken by the British Army, in order that his family could collect the reward, and hence, fund the existence of so many of the estate's families. But with all his arranging, there had been nothing he could do to provide for his greatest treasure. She witnessed his torment their last night together. He had known that he would be seeing her safe away, on her flight from the Highlands, but that small gesture had been a cold comfort.

At first, during the early days of their separation, he had been like a guardian angel, his need to help her a palpable presence, watching over her as she struggled to exist in London, but unable to physically protect her, helpless to do aught else but watch as she woodenly went thought the mechanics of living. Nearly four years ago, she had woken screaming the night he died. She had no other proof of his demise, but none was necessary. He came to her that night, on a cold wind, with a stab to her heart that slew the morsel of hope she had been carrying. He came less often, after that, as if he were being inexorably dragged further and further away, his grip on her being torn free as the months and years crept past. She knew he was still there—somewhere—watching, perhaps influencing Fate and Destiny to be more beneficent on her behalf. He was so like Jack in that way: either one of them could charm the honey from the bees.

Brian's appearance now came as a bit of a shock. His last appearance had been so long ago that she had finally resigned herself to the conclusion that, whatever powers be that allowed such things, had finally closed the doors to eternity. He was gone.

Except now, he was back. There was no mistaking him or his deep, soft voice or piercing blue eyes.

What if he were walking the Earth, traveling the winds, his spirit unable to rest, until he knew she was well? Or, was he angry, because she hadn't stayed true? He had told her to forget him, and to start a new life, but how? There was no forgetting him.

With so many questions, she strained to see him once more, but he was illusive, leaving her with nothing more than the ghostly sound of his voice and his touch.

_Do you mind?_ she asked. _I waited. I waited for so long…_

_Dinna fash, mo cridhe. _Don't worry, my heart.

It could have all been a dream, but there was nothing dream-like when he kissed her, no mistaking the familiar feel of his wide, generous mouth warming hers, not in lust or recrimination, but a well wish, a giving of his blessings, and absolution.

The pattering of the rain stopped more suddenly than it had begun. Another rumble of thunder, and Brian was gone, the storm racing off across the sea, taking him with it.

_Rest in peace, _she murmured silently.

It might have been all in her imagination, but there was no mistaking the sudden, warmth of her wedding ring. With the startling heat that verged on painful, came a vibration, a definite tingling sensation that made her palm itch. And then, that was gone, too.

Jack stirred again, mussing his head into the pillow. He wormed closer to nuzzle sleepily into her neck, moving his hips against hers with a suggestive nudge. Apparently, the sun wasn't the only thing to rise on the _Black Pearl_. The effort of freeing himself from the clutches of Somnus must have been too great a task, however, and he slid back into sleep's possession.

"Cap'n!"

The sound of Gibbs' shouting from beyond the salon doors brought forth a rumbling groan of protest from Jack; his arm tightening, as he grew more determined in his attentions. Her body answered, the scent of his spicy, sleep-laden needs spawning needs of her own. She wanted him to take her, if for no other reason than to dissolve the last haunting vestiges of her husband's visit. Jack was already brass-hard between the cheeks of her buttocks. Surely, whatever was so important could wait...

"Cap'n!"

Just as quickly as the rain, Jack stopped. Heaving a regret-ridden sigh, he gave her breast a departing squeeze and slipped away, bending to give her a brief kiss as he crawled over on his exit. She welcomed the touching of lips, in the hopes of erasing the feel of Brian there. She was a firm believer in only one man in bed at a time, and had made a consciously active effort to keep it as such.

She reached for him, but to her disappointment, Jack pulled away, swearing darkly under his breath. He perched on the edge of the berth, rubbing the sleep from his face, wriggling his toes and blinking owlishly, the dim light playing across the ivory of bare his shoulders and legs.

With a grunt of effort, he stood, several joints popping as he bent for his shirt where it had been dropped in his haste to come to bed. Slipping it over his head, he shuffled back and kissed her, a gentle jousting of tongues saying that neither of them wanted him to go, and yet both knew he must.

"Duty. It's a heartless master," He had once said.

He groaned with reluctance at leaving, emitting another duty-bound sigh.

"Best go see what Gibbs wants, before the man is stricken with apoplexy." Jack's voice was still sleep roughened, more graveled and throaty than usual. "I'll call Kirkland."

With a departing pat on her hip, he gathered the remainder of his clothing from the floor and padded out into the salon, his fingers arcing a vague farewell behind him.

**Jack** squinted into the glare of the morning sun as it popped free of the indigo bank of storm clouds as he stepped out on deck. He rolled a dubious eye at his First Mate.

"This better be good," he grumbled without preamble.

The warning slid off Gibbs as he pressed on to the business at hand. "The lookouts think we might not be alone."

Jack shot Gibbs a dark look. "You woke me for that?"

"'Tis Marty up there," Gibbs qualified, with a roll of his own eyes.

"Wise man!" Jack agreed reluctantly, and stomped up the gangway, Gibbs tight on his heels.

Kirkland arrived with a steaming cup of coffee—God knew how the man could render it that hot, and cause it to remain so, even in the cup—and Jack hovered over it, waiting anxiously for it's rejuvenating powers. There had been a time when he could bide with a couple hours of sleep and rise as clear-eyed as a choirboy. Those days seemed to have passed, however. The body was requiring considerable more these days to refurbish. Either that, or bedding Kate was more draining than he had previously thought.

_None of that, now!_

He felt eyes on him and looked over the rim of his cup to finds Cotton's wretched parrot perched on the binnacle, cocking its head as it scrutinized him.

_Fresh as ever. Wonder why he never looks tired?_

The bird sidled closer, curiously craning its neck to see what was in the cup.

"It's coffee," he grumbled, obligingly holding the cup out for inspection. "It will stunt your growth. Besides, why aren't you up there, minding your duties?"

Ruffling indignantly, the blue and yellow beast squawked an epithet that didn't bear repeating, and flew up to the mizzen masthead. As he turned, Jack caught Cotton watching him from the helm.

"I didn't think you'd want him having any."

"Sail ho!" The cry came, sharp and clear in the morning air, from overhead.

Jack twisted his head aloft to the crow's nest, shading his eyes with one hand. "How do you make it?"

"Difficult to say, sir!" Marty paused to further observe. "Triple-masted."

Following Marty's direction, Jack yanked out the spyglass and peered through it, bracing his legs wide as he rode the rolling deck.

"Bless my soul, that man has good eyes," he muttered, squinting. Lowering the glass, he glanced over his shoulder at Gibbs. "She's there, no doubt about it, but I'll be giggered if I can make out how she's rigged."

Gibbs nodded, straining to scan the horizon. "Orders, Cap'n?"

"Hold 'er true, Gibbs," Jack said after considering. "I want to know more about her before we go off half-cocked. Besides, unless they have Marty's eyes, we're no more to them than a speck on the horizon."

"Aye, sir."

Jack drummed his fingers on his belt, staring sightlessly at the horizon in that mindless gaze sailors fell into. With blessed little else to look at, staring became a natural tendency. Still, he was aware of his ship, the feel of her under his feet, as she spoke to him through pitch and yaw, vibration and slack, her bow boiling the water.

_Sail it, luv. Take the wind in those lovely arms and run free. It's what you were made for, darling. It's what we were both made for…you and I, I and you…us. This is what makes it all worthwhile. This is why we've strove so hard to be together. Sail it, girl!_

"Captain!" Marty called shortly. "She looks Dutch, but 'pears a French flag. Eighteen guns, as I make it."

The contradiction was only a slight puzzlement; the sea was a tangled web of nationalities and histories. A ship could easily meet any number of fates in her lifetime: pressed, captured, abandoned and scavenged, or sold. Eighteen guns was better news; the _Black Pearl_ out-gunned them by nearly double.

Raising the glass again, Jack confirmed Marty's observations. "She's riding low," he announced as Gibbs pulled up at his elbow.

"Aye, sir. Down hard she is, and flyin' every bit o' cover she has."

Snapping the glass closed, Jack tilted his head in amused speculation. "A ship—a merchant, as I'd make it—riding near to scuppers, sailing hard and fast." He swiveled to Gibbs, beaming in satisfaction. "One could easily come to the conclusion, that she has something she wants delivered very quickly, lest anyone else finds out what she has."

Gibbs rocked on his heels, with his own anticipatory grin. "Orders, Cap'n? At this rate, we'll be on her in a few hours."

"True enough, Mr. Gibbs. Let's just hang off, Mr. Cotton," he called to the helm. "Follow her for a bit, see what kind of stuff she's made of. Keep a weather eye!" he shouted to the masthead then stabbed a finger at two nearby crewmen, jabbing a thumb upward. "You two! Get topside and bear an eye! I catch any of you postulant maggots dozing, I'll hock and heave the lot o' yous!"

Ducking a salute, the pair scampered up the ratlines to the unmanned perches. Feeling the weight of their commander's attention, they made an obvious show of settling to their duty. Satisfied, Jack tipped a measuring look skyward, checking the sails and feeling the wind on his neck.

_All right, darling. If that's what you need, then that's what you shall have._

"Slack off windward braces! Haul in the clew!" he shouted to the deck below. "Let's ease 'er off just a bit, Mr. Cotton. Give our guest some sea room; shan't crowd her too soon." Hooking his thumbs in his belts, he tapped a self-assured rhythm as he watched the ship, now easily visible. "Let's give her some time to think."

Off the wind, the _Black Pearl_ still gained steadily on her prey, a small dot on the horizon growing quickly to a full-sized ship. With his arms crossed and one hip propped against the binnacle, Jack watched and waited. This was the hunt; this was the part he loved, the part that made his blood quicken. After all these years, at time his palms would still grow damp, not from fear, but for the love of the game. This was the part that made all the less pleasant parts of piracy…ehh…more pleasant: pursuing the pursued, out-witting the foe, using the unexpected to gain the expected results, utilizing your ship's advantages to their greatest advantage. A chess game at sea.

_This was piracy!_

"Cap'n, 'pears as though she's softening up."

"So I see, Mr. Gibbs," Jack replied casually. "Fall off, then."

He felt the _Pearl's_ deck shift, leveling as her bow moved more into the wind, slowing her just a bit more as the pressure on the sails lessened.

_Good girl! You smell the prey as well, don't you, luv? You know already what's to be done. _

A warm, sweet scent—that special smell of hers—wafted about his nose, announcing Kate's arrival moments before she appeared at his side. All she lacked to make her complete was that faint undertone of having just been bedded.

_Damn regrettable, that._

Oh! If only he could bottle that! The mere thought of it only served to make him want her more. It wouldn't take long. God knew, with those magical fingers, she could have him going off like a whale's spout in a matter of minutes.

Kate shaded her eyes with her hand and peered across the water.

"What's happening?"

It was a silly, idle question; Kate knew full well, what was 'happening.' His attention wavered from the distant ship, to admire her curves as she leaned against the rail, batting a lock of that maddening tangle away from her face. She felt him looking. No challenge there; he was always looking. Couldn't keep his eyes off her; couldn't concentrate on a bloody thing with her about. A deliciously delightful distraction, she was.

Jack absentmindedly ran his fingers across his palm, recalling with eloquent clarity the warm, heavy weight of her breast, as it had rested there not that long ago. A slight blush rose in her cheeks as she saw him; she knew exactly what he was thinking. Giving him a teasing green-eyed—Aye, against the blue of the sky, they were green just then—glance, swaying her hips just enough to let him know that she knew.

The tart! She knew exactly what she was doing to him. He didn't dare risk a look, but no matter. Any man over the age of eleven knows the feel of an impending cockstand.

"Captain?"

The questioning lilt of her voice broke his stare, and he sputtered, trying to backtrack on his train of thought.

"Captain's on the prowl," announced Gibbs, stepping up to Kate's opposite side.

"Aye! On the prowl!" Jack chimed in.

"What are they up to?" Kate inquired, shading her eyes again.

Distracted, Jack looked back across the water and narrowed his eyes, evaluating the changing attitude and luffing sails of the opposing ship.

_Ah, a gambit! A bloody odd one, but at least a maneuver. Now, it's getting interesting!_

"Don't rightly know." Pursing his lips, Jack counted off the options on his fingers. "Could be, she thought she had something worth loosing, but suddenly, it doesn't seem so important anymore. Could be, she's feeling like a cornered woman, and is preparing to come out with her nails bared."

One of his best smiles was already firmly in place by the time Kate turned, effectively diffusing her retort.

Gibbs looked across the water, and then to Jack, puzzled. "You mean, they aim to turn? We'd have 'er broadside, then."

"Aye, or she's stalling, hoping to outmaneuver us under the cover of dark." _Unlikely, but an option, nonetheless._

"She can't out run the _Pearl_!" Gibbs scoffed, shaking his head at the idiocy as he rocked confidently on his heels. "Besides, she'd loose sight o' us, long before we loose sight o' her, what with those white sails and all."

"_I_ know that and _you_ know that, Mr. Gibbs, but perhaps _she _doesn't know that," Jack explained patiently, in spite of his heart quickening in the anticipation of the chase. "At any rate, perhaps if we lurk enough she'll loose heart and surrender."

"Or turn to fight, and we'll have her, or try to escape and we'll have her again!" Gibbs concluded triumphantly in further explanation to Kate.

_Heady tonic, when things go right!_

"Exactly, Mr. Gibbs!" Jack said, puffing with pride. "It would seem time is on our side. Our only danger is to be caught sleeping. Remind those watches to mind their duties and keep a sharp eye. If she catches us sleeping, we'll either be blown to bits, or she'll circle and get her own advantage."

"We could still outrun her, couldn't we?" Kate inquired.

"Only with proper warning," he warned, waggling a finger. "Make it so, Master Gibbs. Oh, and another thing!"

Gibbs halted in mid-stride, turning back expectantly.

"Hoist the colors," Jack said, grinning. His hand instinctively curled around the hilt of his sword as he relished the visions of conquest and plunder. "_That _will give her something to think about."

"Aye, Cap'n!" Gibbs beamed. "Colors it 'tis!"

Now, it was just a simple matter of hot pursuit, waiting for the prey to realize it was about to be preyed upon and surrender. The flapping overhead was all he needed to know the _Pearl's _skull-emblazoned banner had been unfurled, the black-and-white sufficient to cause many a captain's resolution to fade. The _Black Pearl_ had every advantage: speed, size, guns and reputation.

_Leverage! _Now, it was only a small matter of time.

"Captain!"

Marty's alarmed voice yanked Jack's attention back. "What's she doing now?"

"Looks like she coming about!" Marty called from his perch.

Gibbs' heavy brows drew together. "Is she goin' for the wind?"

"If she is, she's going about it all wrong," Jack said.

Frowning, Jack watched his foe, trying to puzzle out the maneuver. Continuing on coarse, straight ahead, would have given the ship speed. But the captain was turning up, bringing his ship's bow into the wind, slowing her down. Position could be a motive, but at the cost of all other advantages.

"She'll be dead in the water at that rate." Jack said, thinking aloud. He shook his head, dumbfounded, but still wary. "Alert the larboard gun crews, Mr. Gibbs."

"Captain!" It was Marty again, pointing urgently from his roost. "She's loading her guns!"

"Bloody hell!" Jack squinted to verify Marty's observations. "What the bloomin' blazes is she doing that for?"

Gibbs stood at his elbow, his face mirroring Jack's disbelief. "The angle's all wrong. If she fires now, she'll miss by a mile!"

"Look at that!" Jack exclaimed, thumping a hand on the rail. "Now she's going back up! At this rate, the bloody fool will be ramming us next. A warning shot, Mr. Gibbs, off her stern."

"Don't you mean, 'off the bow'?"

"No!" Jack barked back, jerking a disgruntled hand at the distant ship. "The bloody idiot would find some way to stumble into it! Stern shot, Mr. Gibbs! On your orders."

"Aye, aye, sir! Stern shot it 'tis!"

In the back of his mind, Jack heard every command on deck, followed the loading of the guns, and felt the deck tilt at the re-setting of the sails, yet his main focus was on something else.

His hand on Kate's arm drew her around to him. "Get below, luv."

"But, I—"

He'd seen that furrow of defiance between her brows before, and recognized when she was squaring for a solid disagreement. He wished he had more crewmen with her spirit.

_Heaven help any man that crossed her._

His tightening grip cut off her protests. "Get below, luv," he repeated evenly. "Please, I haven't a clue what this bloomin' fool is going to do, and I can't have you about. Now, please…"

Lifting her chin, he caught himself on the verge of violating his own rule of deportment, nearly kissing her. Instead, he displayed one of his best smiles, the one that usually worked, when all other convincing failed. "Go below… please."

_Wonder of wonders, it worked! _

Kate gave him one of those accusing looks of hers, with those eyes that could see to his soul, nearly stabbing through to his heart. Then she squeezed his hand, in a silent admonition as to his own safety, and left, down the gangway, disappearing under the edge of the afterdeck to the cabin below.

_Huh! Must have done something wrong. It's never worked that easily before._

"Fire!"

The _Pearl_ shook with the reverberations of the two aft-most guns firing, puffs of blue-black smoke drifting across the water. As planned, the shots resulted in a pair of large splashes, barely astern of the other ship.

Swerving uncertainly, the ship staggered, the veered off, her sails flapping alarmingly in every direction.

"She's headin' downwind, sir!" called Marty.

"Is she trying to outrun us?"

Jack shook his head, flabbergasted. "Your guess is as good as mine, Gibbs. Hot pursuit, helm!"

"Look at her!" Gibbs muttered in confused awe. "Part of her problem is her decks! They're so jammed, the crew can barely move about. Look at that one poor slob tryin' t' haul in that sheet!"

Throwing up his hands, Jack set off down the gangway. "I'm past caring, anymore! Stand by the tacks and sheets!" he bellowed, stalking the deck. "Prepare to loose the windward braces! Ready to come about!!"

He took a breath, holding his next order to allow both port and starboard crews their due time to make ready, timing their turn with the swells. "Helm's alee!!"

A spark of pride lit as he watched his men and ship move in a single fluid motion, effortlessly shifting the ship to take the wind from one side to the other, without a single moment's loss of speed. He'd have to compliment Gibbs; the man knew how to drill a crew, in preparation for times just such as these. Three or four sails changes within minutes, and all seamless.

"Mind that mizzen, you muddled-headed dolts!! Don't let 'er jibe!"

_Well, almost seamless._

It was a race, now, but not much of one. Eagerly settling into her new sail set, the _Pearl_ gained on her target with each roll of a wave.

_That's me lovely! Show that scow over there what you're made of! Let that simpering idiot of a captain over there go and tell everyone he's seen what the Black Pearl can do._

"She's coming about, again, sir!" came an alarmed shout from above.

"Aye, I --"

The words died in Jack's throat as he watched incredulously as the ship turned. Clearly unprepared, her mizzen sail snapped its shackles with a sound that echoed across the water, wrapping itself around the mast. At her bow was no less chaotically disastrous, as a jib tore free, arcing high wind, only to tangle into the foresails above, hopelessly snarling around the forestay. Shuddering under the force, the main's braces gave way, leaving the yard to spin freely, taking the mainsail with it, to wrap around the mast, with the unmistakable sound of tearing canvas. Looking like a butterfly slapped from the air, the ship stalled, dead in the water.

"She's in irons, sir!"

"So I see, Master Gibbs."

_Now, what the bloody hell? Is she stopping as a trick, to lull the Pearl into dousing her speed? Is he surrendering? Or, should we maintain speed and rake them with our guns as we pass?_

Then, the unbelievable happened. From the stern gallery flapped a white flag. Actually, it looked more like a bed sheet, but white was white.

Jack stood with his mouth open, the wind burning his gaping eyes. "Why the bloody hell didn't the silly bastard do that in the first place?" he shrieked when he finally found his voice. Suddenly, the entire ordeal seemed too ridiculous to be tolerated and he threw his hands skyward and wheeled away. "Launch the boats; get a ruddy boarding party over there!"

"Shall we attempt to bring 'er along side?" asked Gibbs, following stride for stride.

"Bloody hell, no!" exploded from Jack. "I don't want that lubberly lout anywhere near me ship." He paused, composing himself. "We're too short-handed to commandeer her, and she'll not be going very far, very fast in that shape and loaded to the ports. Set for a tow, so she don't go drifting off, and then cast off the boats. Leave a party over there; bring back the captain—whoever that dundering dolt might be—and the First Mate and bosun. That should cripple them even more than they were already," he grumbled, shooting a dagger look past Gibbs' shoulder toward the awaiting ship. "Just try and make sure, they don't drown themselves on the way over. See if you can find what it is that they carry that they think is so bloody valuable as to destroy a ship."

**Kate** had been watching the cat and mouse from the stern windows of the cabin, but was still startled when Jack burst through the doors, stomping across the room and throwing himself into his chair in a clatter of oddments. He picked up several things from the table and threw them disinterestedly back down, huffing and grumbling under his breath, not out of anger, but something else: frustration.

"Is everything all right?" Kate was uncertain, thinking perhaps something more had happened than she had witnessed. "It sounded as if everything went well."

"Aye, fine." Nothing in his voice or physical presence supported his statement. His eyes shifted with his agitation, shoulders twitching as his fingers drummed on the table.

"I thought I saw I white flag," she said, in an effort to distract him.

Jack was quiet before answering, his pique lessening. "Aye." One corner of his mouth tucked up in a dry, forced smile as he flicked the dividers around on the table with one finger. "Put the fear in 'im, we did."

"So, you're upset because they surrendered?" she said, creeping closer.

"They've made a joke out of a perfectly honest profession," he said, with a heated swipe in the air. "Incompetent blighters like that shouldn't even be allowed at sea." He tapped two fingers on the table in emphasis as he spoke. "They're a danger to themselves, and everyone around them"

Kate shook her head, confused. "You're angry because it was too easy?"

"I'm not angry!!" Too irked to sit, he bounded to his feet, and began pacing. The bone at the side of his head, and his beard dangles, bobbed wildly, the silver ornament at his shoulder rattling as his hands spiraled and arched in the air. "Well, all right, just a bit. Vexed, more's the word. Worst bit o' seamanship I have ever seen in me twenty-five-odd years at sea. The decks were all aloo. They never had a sail trimmed properly… not the once. And she was riding so hard at the bow she was plowing her way through the water. I've seen children's toys in the bathwater riding better! I could tell from here, her hull was barnacled and wormy!"

Kate retreated a step as Jack stormed back and forth, his scarf jouncing at his knees. She knew him well enough now, to know that he wouldn't maintain this level of choler for long. His tantrum was surprising, but it only spoke to the seriousness with which he took his profession—the sea, that is. Finally, his energies waned. Giving his hat a peevish toss, he slumped into a chair again, propping one booted heel on the table with a hollow clunk.

"Just can't bear to see a ship being abused that way," he grumbled, dropping his head in his hand. "She deserves better. It's an affront to every able-bodied seaman, that's what it is!"

He looked so disconsolate Kate couldn't help but take pity. Moving behind him, she pushed his hair aside, and began rubbing his shoulders. His head dropped back to rest at her midriff as her fingers dug in, releasing more of the tension in his mood, than in his muscles.

While Kate continued her ministrations, she propped her chin on top of his head. "Feel better, now?"

"Aye." A begrudging smile tugged one corner of his mustache.

He sighed pleasurably as he surrendered into her hands. She continued to massage his shoulders, working her fingers along the tight cords of his neck an up under his hair, to the hard curves of his skull, and then back down, between his shoulder blades and over his upper arms.

"Remind me, sometime," he began, his eyes closed. "If we ever get to Cartagena, there's a place I want to take you."

"I'll be looking for paybacks long before that," she warned, quietly teasing.

He rolled his eyes upward, tilting his head to peer at her through a heavy veil of lashes. "Paybacks, eh?" His dark eyes sparked with devilment. "A man could be lost in contemplating the consequences of such concepts."

The sound of footsteps and voices out on deck broke them apart.

"We have visitors," Jack announced, with a quiet resolve and pushed up from the chair.

15


	2. Chapter 2: Reticent Parley

**_Treasured Treasures_**

**Chapter Two: Reticent Parley**

**The** visitors—more like captives—from the waylaid ship were three in number. Already divested of their weapons, they clustered at the top of the sea ladder, encircled by the pirates of the _Black Pearl_. By their dress and demeanor, two of the men were clearly of a lesser station than the older one that stood between them. First and Second Mates, by Kate's assessment, leaving the one remaining to be their commanding officer. The three turned when Jack came on deck. Their captain blenched, stiffening at the sight of him.

"Benefit Absolam Barker!" Jack announced as he strode toward them. He sounded honestly, and completely surprised—but not entirely pleased. "As I live and breathe!"

Barker—apparently his name—seemed to share Jack's reaction as Jack swaggered across the deck toward him. In truth, Barker's surprise must have been the greater, since he was the one rendered momentarily speechless.

"By what quirk of divine intervention, are you still alive?" Jack asked as he drew to a halt before the trio. "I'd have thought one of your bungling misadventures would have delivered you to your maker by now."

It was difficult to judge, but Barker could well have been Jack's age; however, he seemed older, more worn by both weather and life. At the moment, he was most definitely the more nervous, sweating profusely. Dowdy-brown hair hung in thin threads plastered about his face and neck, and his watery gray eyes shifted incessantly.

Out of courteous reflex, Captain Barker started to bow then caught himself in mid-motion, and straightened. Resettling his coat on his shoulders, he attempted a more dignified air. As sun-faded as the garment was, it still maintained it's respectability, not nearly as tattered, or—"well-loved", as Jack preferred to put it, as Jack's coat.

"I'd heard you _had_ been delivered… not exactly to the same place," Barker said, barely tactful, finally finding his voice.

"Rumor and unfounded gossip," Jack replied, with blithe dismissal and a loose-wristed flip of the hand. "What dim-sighted, wreck of desperation would commission you a ship? I know someone had to have given you one, because you never could put enough coppers together to buy your own drink... or wench."

"Shall I list now, Jack, all the people you owe money?" Barker paused as he gave Kate a lewd look. "I see you've managed to put at least a few shillings together, yourself." He nodded approvingly. "Very nice, Jack, although you always did seem lucky when it came to whores."

If they had been dogs, the men of the _Pearl's _hackles would have risen. Lacking such attributes, they only bristled at the insult.

As if in confidence, Jack leaned toward Barker, but spoke loudly enough for the benefit of everyone standing near. "I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue, in front of the lady." The menace in Jack's voice was clear.

Barker swept off his hat, offering Kate a bow that was a little too grand. "Captain Benefit Absolam Mathias Barker, your servant, _Madame_," he murmured, only slightly less mocking.

Kate felt the bite of his sardonic note, Jack's hand curling into a fist at his leg. Jack's failure to introduce Kate was glaring, a blatant discourtesy to Barker. It was unclear if Barker noticed or not; he seemed preoccupied with other matters.

Barker's jibe seemed to have further fueled his own courage as he turned back to Jack. "Am I to assume I'm being taken hostage?"

Jack snorted. "No! You can only assume that you've been taken."

Barker squinted up into the sun, exemplifying his discomfort. "Do you intend to leave me standing here, in the morning sun, Jack, or are you going to abide by the Gentleman's Code, and offer an old friend some hospitality, in the way of a chair and a drink?"

"You're currently a prisoner." Jack's upper lip curled in disdain. "As such, I owe you nothing beyond the warmth of me brig."

Barker laughed, artificially confident. "And I'm declaring parley."

Jack narrowed a warning eye. "Parley is a privilege reserved only for pirates."

The smile fell from Barker's face. "Then let's bend the rules."

The two squared off, sizing each other up, one waiting for the other to yield. Territoriality had its place in every realm. Barker had just infringed upon Jack's sphere of influence, and then had the temerity to make demands. Physically, he wasn't a bad looking sort, but Kate already found something disquieting about the man.

All humor left Jack's features as he scowled at Barker; many may not of noticed, but a mask had just fallen across Jack's face. It was a subtle change, but it was there nonetheless. In that same moment, his decision was made, and he broke into a supremely false smile, no one was going to see the slightest glimpse of what was going through his mind.

"Of course," he said, through bared teeth, extending a cordial arm. "Please, _do_ come in and have a seat! I declare, where are my manners!" he mocked, ushering Barker through the door of his cabin. "Darling," he called, turning to Kate with an imperious gesture. "Could you be so kind as to bring a tot of rum, to this poor misunderstood and dejected soul?"

Reclined in his chair, fingers tented to his chin, Jack's eyes never left Barker as Kate went through the motions of hostess. She was well aware of Barker watching her, and was uncomfortable to see his thinly veiled contempt. It was already quite clear that he was an odd combination. He bore a judgmental way, measuring everyone by a standard to which no one else ascribed, and yet, he, himself, was unable to meet anyone directly in the eye.

Curious, she stole a glance at Jack, to see if he had noticed Barker's look. He had.

Barker downed the drink in one gulp, and hopefully sought another. Kate checked with Jack first, who jerked a nod in approval, a single-fingered gesture bidding her to leave the bottle.

"So," Jack said, dropping his hands, calling the meeting to order. "You obviously have something you think that I want, and ergo, there is something that _you_ are wanting."

Barker sat back in his chair. "Who said I had anything?" He made a poor job of posing innocence.

"As I recall it, you're the one who invoked the term 'parley'." Contempt shaded each of Jack's words.

Still perspiring freely, Barker pulled out a massive handkerchief, visibly shaking as he mopped his round face. Doffing his hat, he swiped his sun-scaled head.

"I want my ship," he said simply, his voice quavering as he settled his hat back into place, struggling to bring his gaze up to Jack's.

"In exchange for…?" Jack asked, his dark eyes hardening to coal.

Holding his bluff only for a few seconds, Barker finally collapsed. "C'mon, Jack! We all know you're a pirate, now. But everyone here knows, you're not going to kill me."

"Really!" Jack exclaimed, his eyes lighting with sarcasm. He lurched up from his chair and walked to Kate, at the gallery sill. "Tell me, do _you_ know I'm not going to kill him?"

Watching Barker perspire, Kate lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "It's difficult to say."

Pivoting on his heel, Jack strolled around the table, his path taking him in and out of the circle of sunlight streaming down through the skylight. Snatching the rum bottle from the table as he passed, he took a drink as he halted before one of the _Pearl's_ men guarding the door.

"Mr. Asaid?"

"Aye, sir?" The tall Moor was an imposing figure, looming over Barker's shoulder.

"Do _you_ know I'm not going to kill him?" Jack's eyes shifted with taunting mischief. He was playing with Barker, and everyone knew it—except Barker, who was only hoping that were the case.

Asaid slid Barker a measuring look, and then impassively back at Jack. "No, sir. I can't say as I do."

"Hmm." Jack touched a thoughtful finger to his chin, walking around Barker's chair. "Shall I ask a few others, in hopes of a more equitable survey, or are you satisfied with the consensus all ready to hand?"

There was the sound of approaching footsteps as Gibbs entered the cabin, his eyes rolling with import.

"Yes, Mr. Gibbs?" Jack inquired, his gaze unwavering from Barker.

Gibbs drew up next to Barker's chair, still breathing heavily from his trip to inspect the captured ship. "Reporting, sir."

Jack held his stare at Barker for an extra bit of intimidation, before he finally looked expectantly at Gibbs.

"Cap'n, there be near a hundred people on that ship."

The pirates in the room shifted on their feet, exchanging wary glances. Jack blinked, caught off guard.

"Passengers," Barker clarified quickly. "Seventy-eight, to be exact."

"And loaded with stores," Gibbs went on, perturbed. "Enough to feed said seventy-eight fer a month, mebbe more, sir."

"A man has to travel prepared," Barker reasoned quickly.

Jack erupted into a derisive laugh. "You've never been prepared a day in your life!" He paused long enough to mockingly wipe a humor-invoked tear from his eye, then instantly sobered. "What's your destination?"

Dropping his eyes to the table, Barker grew uneasier. "I'd rather not say, until we've entered deeper into our negotiations."

Under the drilling glare from Jack and Gibbs together, Barker only managed to hold his bravado for a few seconds. "Oh, all right! Île du Bienveillant."

Gibbs mouth sagged, as Jack threw back his head and gave an honest laugh. "Same old Bungling Bumpkin Barker! You're a good two and a half, maybe three days, off course."

Still spewing mirthfully, Jack shook his head, and went on to explain to the remainder of the room. "I've shipped with this mess before. He can't find his way to the fo'c'stle without a compass, and would still get lost along the way. Had to have an escort every time he went to the head. The man could mess up a free fu…hump." Clearing his throat, he darted an apologetic glance at Kate.

"Cold words, Jack." Barker hunched defensively. Apparently, the accusations were not totally unfounded.

"S'trewth, and you know it! Bootstrap refused to ship with you anymore. And I happen to know of two different occasions, when you were _deposited_ by your crew."

"Not unlike what I heard happened to you," Barker countered, with a self-satisfied smile.

Jack deflected Barker with an off-handed shrug as he dropped back down in his chair. "That was an entirely different affair."

"Not so much, if you consider anyone who would be foolish enough to take on Hector Barbossa as a First Mate." This time Barker openly congratulated himself at his verbal coup. It seemed a bit of an overly confident thing to say, for a man surrounded by pirates.

The surrounding crew of the _Pearl_ stiffened, Gibbs' fist curling for his sword, the fact that the meeting was being conducted under the guise of parley being the only thing holding him back. Barker at least had the awareness to realize how close he was to harm, and wormed in his chair.

"So, what do you want of me, Jack?" he finally said, in an effort to change the subject. "My ship?"

"What would I want with a ship that can barely stay afloat?"

"My cargo?"

"People and barrels of pickled beef?"

"Eat the beef; sell the people."

Jack's eyes went cold. "You know I don't deal in people."

Sweat slid faster down Barker's face as he reddened. "Don't have to sell them as slaves," he reasoned, dabbing the sweat from his lip. "The women you could sell at the Bride's Market in Tortuga. The rest could be sold as bonded."

"Bonded's the same as slave." Jack's voice fell to a low growl. "Just have to pay a little less, that's all."

Barker fidgeted under Jack's stare, shifting in his seat as he tugged at his coat cuff.

"Most of 'em 'pears as they were slaves, already," put in Gibbs, suspiciously. "Others 'pear to be not much more than natives, captured."

"Ah," Jack began, with unveiled contempt. Propping his boot on the table, he folded his hands across his stomach. "So, now who's the pirate? Kidnapping. Stealing. What other nefarious deeds have you been up to, _Captain_ Barker?"

Jack's gaze slid from his First Mate back to Barker, arching an expectant eyebrow. He was playing with the man like a cat with a mouse, the kohl-lined eyes only adding to the feline image.

"Honest, Jack," Barker began. The man was beginning to show signs of imploding. "As one friend to another… as one captain to another… do you think I could have another drink? Just a spot more rum, that's all."

Kate moved toward him, but Jack quietly waved her off. "Let him get it himself."

A thick air of malevolence permeated the room. The two men obviously knew each other well enough to have spawned a competition that had managed to span over an absence of indeterminate length. Jack was exhibiting a surprising level of animosity and uncharacteristically didn't seem particularly concerned with hiding it. At the moment, Jack did seem to have the upper hand. Barker was trying to bluff his way through, but lacked the internal fortitude to face down a shipload of pirates.

Visibly shaking, Barker poured another drink, closing his eyes in relief as he swallowed. Still grasping the cup, he paused, summoning the courage to continue. "I can tell you where there is a great deal of money on that island."

Those who knew Jack would have recognized the interested spark that suggestion brought. To anyone else, he appeared as benignly disinterested as ever. "How?"

Somewhat steadied by the rum, Barker looked up, returning Jack's level gaze. "Let's just say, 'I know.'"

"Let's not."

Jack held his gaze as Barker dabbed the droplets of sweat from his temples with his sleeve. Fondling his glass, Barker lifted it to his mouth and drained it a second time, desperate for any last drops.

"I'll make it easier on you, Bumpy. Who's your benefactor? Oh, come now!" Jack scoffed at Barker's obscenely blank look. "The only way you could have gotten a ship, and a cargo to boot, is if someone were to bankroll you. You may have raided and stolen, but you're being paid by someone. Now, who is it?"

Torn by indecision, Barker's pale gray eyes shifted, the heel of his shoe tapping a nervous tattoo on the floor.

"Antoine Perrineau," Barker finally surrendered. He uttered the name as if he expected Jack, and everyone else in the room, to be impressed.

Jack wasn't, nor anyone else. "Who?"

"A rich planter on Bienveillant," Barker said, irritated by the necessity of having to explain. "He's been paying me to bring him slaves and supplies."

"'Been paying' implies this is not your first venture."

"Third, actually," mumbled Barker.

"Third?" echoed Jack. "You've managed to find your way back twice, already? Me hat's off, Bumpy! It would seem you're improving with age." He gave the praise a moment to settle. "So, why are you so willing to bite the hand that has fed you so amply? Bringing the wrath of pirates down on the heads of benefactors, just to save your miserable hide, isn't a very admirable quality."

Barker's head sank, wincing at Jack's blunt observation. "He's rich, Jack," he began, looking up, extending a pleading hand. "_Very_ rich, and you could be, too. All you have to do is go there, and take it."

"And in return?"

"I get the _Clothilde_, my ship, and you let me go… with my crew."

"And your _cargo_?"

Pulling his handkerchief from his coat pocket, Barker swiped the already sodden cloth across his face. "Hell, they're just fodder anyway," he mumbled into the fabric. "You can have it all. I don't care. Just let me go."

"And all this in return for you showing me where the riches are?"

"Sure," Barker sighed, tiredly rubbing his hands over his eyes. "I'll draw you a map to where he keeps it. It's just him, his wife, an overseer, a bunch of servants and slaves. With your talents, Jack, you should be able to walk in, take it and have him offering you his wife, by the time you're ready to leave. Beggin' your pardon, Madame," he added quickly to Kate, without the remotest amount of sincerity.

Just as a cat plays with its prey, Jack allowed Barker to twist on the end of the pike that impaled him just a little longer. "Why can't you just show me?"

"I said I would draw you a map," Barker testily shot back, unmercifully wringing his handkerchief.

"More's the better, if you could just lead the way."

"No, no!" Barker's eyes widened. He began crawling in his seat, as if something were approaching on the floor. "I'm not going back there. Just let me give you the map and you can be on your way."

"And you can be on your way, eh?"

"That's the deal," Barker nodded eagerly. He seemed to be of the mind that he was on the verge of prevailing.

"No," Jack said quietly. He settled more comfortably in his chair, satisfied. The bait had been taken. "You've given me no proof that there are any such riches of any sort."

"I said it's there," Barker said with some asperity, defensive at the suggestion that he wasn't being honorable. "What more proof do you need?"

Jack's boot heels clumped hollowly on the rug as he sat up and leaned across the table. "You forget, Bumpy; this is Ol' Jack you're speaking with. Honesty has not always been your middle name."

"You're the pirate, not me," Barker replied hotly.

"True enough," nodded Jack amiably as he rose. With his back to Barker, he winked at Kate as he passed, and then began to stroll the room. "But I've been around the Horn enough times, to know when someone is trying to play me false. Besides, if as you say, you are on such good terms with these unfortunates, said familiarity might well give us a leg up on the proceedings. You, in addition, can supply the finer details of the acquisition."

Jack did a predator's circle around Barker's chair. He was being the pirate that he was, and assumed the roll with a flourish, putting on a show for the men gathered interestedly at the doorway, as much as for Barker. The smell of old sweat and fear rose in a fug from Barker, the shoulders of his coat patterned with the dark spots made by the perspiration dripping from his jaw.

It was clear to everyone that, pirate or no, Jack was not going to kill Barker. But that wasn't the point. This was parley: no harm could come to anyone until the negotiations were complete. But, it was entirely possible that Parker wasn't completely aware of the finer details of the Pirate Code. This was a mental game, of dominance and intimidation. Barker knew that Jack wouldn't have him shot, but there were any number of vile acts that Jack could bestow upon him. Foolishly, the man had already tipped his hand; Jack knew what was most important to Barker—to any captain, really. Now, it was just a matter of how much Jack could manipulate from him. As it appeared at the moment, Barker was putty in Jack's hands.

On the other hand, with all due respect to Jack and his piratical comportment, Barker's fear stemmed from something else, deep-seated, whose roots extended far beyond whatever was said or done in the cabin of the _Black Pearl._

"It's there, Jack… I swear… I promise," Barker pleaded. "All you have to do is…"

"No, better yet," Jack cut in, pivoting on his heel in mid-stride, "all _you_ have to do is show us where it is, and then I'll set you on your way, on your ship, with your crew… and I'll even throw in a bearing, so's you won't get lost."

A wave of panic overtook Barker, stumbling and sputtering over his words as he clawed at his seat. "No, no! I can't go back there! I won't go back there! Just let me tell you where it is," he finished in desperation.

"Very well." Jack took the declination in stride, as being all a part of the game, and he was upping the ante, bearing down on his old acquaintance just that little more. "I'm left with no other assumption than there is nothing more left to be said. I have a new ship, and you'll be adrift. A dinghy, if you please, Master Gibbs. _Captain_ Barker will be..."

"You can't do that!"

"Ah, but I can." Antagonism lit Jack's eyes as he bared his teeth just enough to add to the malevolence. "Pirate, remember?"

A silence fell over the cabin, with only the creaking of the ship, a few nervous coughs and shuffling of feet from the men in the doorway, to break it. Kate's heart was pounding in her ears, and her nails were digging painfully into her palm.

"Make your choice, Bumpy, and be sure to chose wisely, because it's the last choice that you'll be choosing to make, by your own choice, of course." Jack posed squarely before Barker. His hand draped on the butt of his pistol, casually enough but with just a hint of menace. "C'mon, Bumpy, your ship... or... not?"

"All right!" Barker burst out, deflating like a bubble. He passed a quivering hand across his face, exhaling shakily as he wiped his hand on his leg. "Fine! You win, just like you always did."

Jack leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his arms triumphantly. "And so, you'll show me exactly where said bounty is hidden when we arrive at Île du Bienveillant," he coached. Ostensibly, he was verifying the terms for the benefit of everyone, but Kate suspected he was also grinding in Barker's defeat, just a bit more. "And I'll give you your ship, crew... hell, I'll even throw in ten percent of me plunder!" Jack declared with a magnanimous sweep of his hand. "Agreed?"

Barker dropped his eyes as he nodded, mumbling an acknowledgment to his lap.

"Excellent!" Jack declared, triumphantly. "We have an accord! See our guest to a cabin below," he said to the crewmen. He looked down at Barker's surprised look. "You'll have the freedom and hospitality of the _Black Pearl._ But mind," he added, lifting a warning finger. "I'll have no skulking about, nor treachery, in return for me good graces."

Barker and his men were escorted out as Jack bid Gibbs to remain, all his levity dissolving.

"Get several more men back over on that ship," Jack said without preamble, once the cabin was cleared. "I don't want anyone getting any wise ideas. Start looking about; see if you can find what's so all-fired precious on that ship."

Gibbs' frowned, his grizzled brows nearly touching. "Yer not believin' Barker?"

Jack snorted. "I wouldn't trust that man with me dead cat."

"Those poor wretches over there are near starved, Cap'n," Gibbs said, inclining his head toward the _Clothilde_, now visible through the stern windows.

"Open up the stores," Jack replied, without hesitation. "Allow them the run of it."

"Aye, Cap'n." With enthused relief, Gibbs turned on his heel and set to his duties.

Jack's mask that had been so firmly in place, dissolved as Gibbs left the room, replaced by a clouded look. Kate turned to the windows, following the direction of Jack's gaze at the ship behind them. A myriad of curious dark heads could be seen lining the rails of the _Clothilde,_ watching as the _Pearl's_ longboats plied back and forth between the ships as they rigged ropes for towing.

Before, Kate had had no idea what Jack had meant as he ranted about the poor condition of Barker's ship. Now, with the _Clothilde_ in full view, she could easily see what he had meant. Long, low and sleek, the merchant ship could have been a remarkable vessel. As it was, however, she appeared waterlogged, sitting low in the water, riding heavy against each wave that rolled past her bow. Kate had to admit she too found the disrespect for the ship objectionable. Peeled and faded, with a splintered figurehead, the facial features weathered nearly smooth, the _Clothilde_ was a ghost of what her former self must have been. The _Black Pearl_ sat before her, almost preening in her gilded elegance, flaunting the loving care that she had been provided, the beloved mistress before the unloved.

"What's Barker so afraid of?" Kate asked.

Jack made a skeptical sound in the back of his throat. "His own shadow." With a second thought, he straightened and assumed one of his boastful stances, fluttering his eyelids. "Me!"

"I don't mean to trample your ego, Jack," she said, hiding a smile. "But it was something beyond just the threat of pirates. The man was scared nearly speechless."

Jack deflated at the skeptical roll of Kate's eyes. "Aye, well, something to be sure," he said, recollecting his dignity. "He always was afraid of his own shadow. More's probably the case, he's more scared of his employer." He chuckled softly. "I thought there for a minute, he was going to piss himself. Loss of a ship can be daunting... for some... I've heard it said... a few times... at any rate."

"The poor man was a wreck." Kate dropped her head in her hand in frustration. "I wish there was something could be done for him."

Jack took her hand, and she looked up into intent eyes, darkened with concern. He gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze. "Darling, you can't save the world."

Kate looked back across the water at the faces lining the rails of the _Clothilde_. "What do you suppose he's doing with all those people?" she asked, thinking aloud.

"God only knows!" Jack said, turning toward the stern windows. His gaze quickly shifted, going far past the ship resting behind them. "No man should own another," he murmured.

A haunted look grew as he began absentmindedly rubbing the brand, beads of a cold sweat glistening in the dark of his mustache. Kate touched his arm, and he blinked, breaking his trance.

"Jack, you're doing all you can for them."

"Am I?" he asked, darting a skeptical glance. "Seems bloody little, too little, too late, by the look of it."

"You can take them some place, and see them free."

Jack shifted a wary look. "Like the last time?" He set to rubbing his arm again, as if his palm might erase the mark. "I'm not sure I could survive another."

The corner of his mouth pulled up grimly. "Not much I can do." He waved a vague hand toward the horizon. "Not immediately, at any rate. There's nothing between here and there, but a few god forsaken rocks that would barely support a land crab, no fresh water, nothing." He began rubbing the bridge of his nose as his frustration grew.

"So… what, then?"

"Well," he began, blowing a tired sigh. "See what's to be had at Bienveillant. Then, beyond that, just another day or so—wind providing—are a couple of fair prospects: good land, fair amount of game, some decent fishing and plenty of fresh water. Should be a veritable paradise for them. I'll have Gibbs make sure the men take all the implements they can from that plantation: shovels, axes, saws… whatever. At least they'll have something more than just their own two hands to start with."

His brow furrowed so deeply his brows nearly touched under the brim of his hat. Kate laid a hand to his cheek, and stroked his temple with her thumb. Slowly, his eyes trailed toward hers, searching for reassurance.

"This time will be different," Kate said, with confidence.

He seemed only slightly appeased by that, and was briefly able to meet her gaze.

"You said you had shipped with him—Barker—before?"

Jack saw Kate's question for what it was: a heavy-handed attempt to distract him, but he willingly went along.

"We—Thomas and Bootstrap and I—were on the _Portia_. She was a merchant running silks from Malacca to Chinsura." Jack fell upon his tale with enthusiasm, relieved by the diversion. "I was second mate; Thomas was bosun."

"You were higher than he?"

"Thomas?" He glanced as she nodded. "Aye," he said, puffing with a bit of pride. "Always was—nothing against Thomas, mind—but I was always a step or two ahead."

"And Barker?"

Jack shook his head, his metal bits clattering softly as he turned to prop his rear against the gallery sill. "He was a disaster looking for a place to happen."

"How did he ever manage to get on board, if he was so bad?"

"No mystery," Jack said, with a half-shrug. "He was the captain's wife's, sister's second cousin, or some such nonsense." He flapped a hand, as if batting the whole issue away. "Didn't have enough money or position to buy himself a rank in the Royal Navy, nor a commission with the Company, so he finally wheedled his way onto a merchant as crew... through the good graces of others," he added, with a touch of bitterness.

"What were you like then?"

Jack's past was always an intrigue. Kate knew so much about him—possibly more than he had ever told another living soul, with the exception of Thomas—and yet, she knew so little. Always on the defense when it came to talking about himself, Jack darted a wary look sideways, but seemed eased by her intentions.

"Brash and cocky," he said with a crooked grin. "I thought I knew all the answers, and had the world eating out of the palm of me hand, not the humble and wizened soul that I am today," he added quickly, with a supremely false attempt at modesty.

"But still a good liar, apparently."

They laughed quietly together.

"I knew I would have a ship... some day," he said, sobering as he kicked idly at the rug at his feet. "It was only a matter of time."

He fell quiet, the haunted look beginning to return. Kate knew she had to think of something more, quickly.

"So, what happened with Barker?"

"Oh." Jack momentarily stalled, recollecting his thoughts. "As I said earlier—it was no exaggeration—we had to arrange an escort for him, otherwise he'd loose his way, on board, mind," he added, wagging a finger. "Thomas and I were always covering for him. The Captain seemed to know, but there wasn't much to be done, what with his wife and all."

"Yes, those wives can be demanding and unforgiving sorts, can't they?" Kate mused, teasing.

Jack's smile came more easily as he crossed his arms and ankles. Her efforts were working; he was beginning to relax. The light through the windows behind him flared over his shoulders, glinting bright in the occasional copper strands in his hair.

"The most rancorous was the fact that Bumpy had been given a rank that he clearly hadn't earned. That point didn't set well with anyone—never does on a ship. Bootstrap was particularly irked," he went on, chuckling to himself at some distant memory. "We had to pull him off Bumpy several times, either as a result of some bungling mistake, or something he had said. Bumpy never had the grace nor wisdom to mind his mouth amongst his superiors," he added as an aside.

"Brash and cocky?" Kate echoed back to him, arching a skeptical brow.

Abashed, Jack ducked his head. "Aye, well, at least I knew enough to hold me tongue... mostly... sometimes... well, at least a little better than he. Bumpy is just one of those people that can rub anyone the wrong way, just by virtue of his existence."

"I thought you told me once that Bootstrap had gone pirate."

Jack's response was delayed, as he was distracted by the activities of outside. Longboats from both ships were plying back and forth, as crews were moved and preparations were made for towing the _Clothilde_. With his head twisted well over his shoulder, he watched for several moments.

"He was, on and off, there for a bit." Satisfied with the progress outside, he resumed their conversation. "I knew him before he turned pirate. He tried to convince Thomas and I to join him." He chuckled, shaking his head at the irony. "Seemed daft, at the time. Bootstrap loved it, but then remorse would start filling him up, for leaving his family."

"Family?"

"Aye, a wife and son." He closed one eye with the effort of recalling. "I think there was another child in there somewhere or another, as well... Anyway," he went on, shaking off the thought, "he had left them behind, as all sailors do. He would try to go honest, but after a while, the call of the Brethren would be too strong. At that point, I think it was Bumpy what pushed him over the edge."

Gibbs' call from on deck broke Jack's train of thought. The leather of his belts creaked as he rose.

"Do me a favor, darling." He touched her arm, squeezing it in gentle admonition. "Stay clear of the man."

"You think I'm going to throw myself at him?" Kate asked, a little incredulous.

"Hardly," he snorted, a bit of the levity returning to his eyes. His hand softened on her arm, and he fondled with her hair. "He wouldn't know what to do with you." His hand fell away as his wishful look dissolved. "The man's trouble, always has been, always will be."

"He hardly seems dangerous."

"Danger comes in many forms," Jack said, pointing a warning finger. "His is the less common, but most certainly the deadliest variety: ignorance. He's one of those that will cause everyone around him to be killed, while the blind luck of Providence will leave him standing."

"You've given him run of the ship."

"Aye," Jack nodded agreeably, his hair oddments clattering. "And a directive for every hand to bear an eye. One false move, and I'll slap him in irons, I swear." He bent and gave her a brief kiss. "Stay clear of the man... please."

He gave her one of those dark-eyed, gold-and-ivory looks meant to charm, and it did.


	3. Chapter 3: Tales of the Milky Way

**Chapter Three: Tales of the Milky Way**

**With **a long sigh of relief, Kate settled on her seat made of boxes and crates at the f'c's'tle, prepared to enjoy the evening, and perhaps a bit of solitude.

The past two days hadn't been easy. The _Black Pearl_ was making headway well enough, considering that she was towing the _Clothilde_, Kate had relied upon Gibbs' expertise for that judgment. Jack, however, had been distant and distracted, endlessly pacing, whether he be on the afterdeck, or in the Great Cabin. On the rare occasions he did take a pause, she had found him staring out the stern windows, presumably at the _Clothilde_, but Kate sensed he was seeing something far past that. Consequently, she sought refuge at the foredeck as often as she could, not only for her own peace, but also to provide Jack with the privacy that he currently seemed to need.

She readily recognized the hollow clump of Jack's boots on the deck as he came up the gangway, shuffling to a halt. He said nothing for several moments, but the soft metallic clatter of the oddments in his hair, and creak of leather indicated that he was moving—as always.

"Thought you might be here." The sound of relief suggested that there had been some concern on his part as to her whereabouts.

"Not many other places I could be." She wasn't being confrontational; it was just a basic observation. "I just wanted a little quiet. It occurred to me that you might be wanting a little of the same, as well."

She glanced over her shoulder. Jack was half-hidden in the dark, his face obscured as the light from the nearest lamp haloed over his shoulders and chest.

Jack cleared his throat, shifting uneasily on his feet, his belts creaking. "Can't imagine what you're talking about."

"Doesn't matter." She chuckled softly as his awkward attempt at innocence. She lifted her face toward the night sky and glorious blaze of stars, the Milky Way curling a fairy-dust path, brilliantly shimmering across the velvet black. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Stepping closer, Jack came into the light, Kate's gaze coming down into a look that she felt to her very depths, her belly tightening.

"Aye, 'tis beautiful," he said, in a hoarse whisper.

Flushing, she was grateful for the evening breeze that cooled her heated face wrought by his open need, his look was igniting a few of her own needs. The night was young, but Jack had the watch, shortly. She would have to wait, but it wasn't going to be easy.

She had paid little attention to the watch bells, her first few fortnights on board. Now, she lived by them, because Jack lived by them. At their beckoning, he would be gone, intent on his ship and the matters at hand. But between times, he was hers; she had sole ownership of him. In those islands of time, she was able to erase all else, and then, he would be hers, and hers alone.

She patted the space on the box next to her. "Why don't you come and sit?"

He moved toward her, but then shied, his mouth pressing into a grim line as he backed away. "Perhaps I'd best sit elsewhere. I'm not so sure next to you is the wisest, just now."

"No self-control, captain?"

"You've no idea," he murmured, a strain in his voice that gave her every idea what he was struggling against.

Grumbling under his breath, Jack stretched out on the hard planks. Leaning against the stacked crates and boxes, his shoulder came to rest against her leg.

"How can you possibly be comfortable down there?"

He seemed somewhat surprised by the question. "Been on decks me whole life," he said and shrugged indifferently.

As Jack casually crossed his ankles, he availed himself upon the protection of darkness to slip a hand under the hem of her skirt, and slowly ran it up her leg. Cool at first from the night air, his touch quickly warmed against her skin. "Besides, I can find me comforts where needed."

"How long before we reach our destination?" It was a bit of a strain for her to speak, but she needed some kind of distraction from the seductive advances his fingers were making.

"If everything holds, late tomorrow."

"And then what?"

"And then," he said, lazily following the shape of her calf. "We find whatever it is that there is to find, turn loose those poor, wretched souls, and make way, as fast as possible."

"You make it sound easy." Her voice caught as he brushed the tender underside of her knee.

"It is!" His fingers skimmed the length of her shin, lingering at the soft of her ankle. "At least, it can be," he finally qualified.

She didn't want to consider the alternate to Jack's postulate. There was nothing about Barker that instilled trust. He struck her as a desperate man, and desperate men did desperate things. The only fact that served to mollify her concerns was her confidence that Jack shared her opinion. He wasn't about to walk wide-eyed into anything.

Shaking away her concerns, Kate turned her attention skyward. "Stunning, isn't it?"

Jack's head moved against her as he looked up. "Aye," he said, softly.

"When I was a girl, I used to take my pillow and quilt out on the veranda and watch the stars. Orion was always just overhead. I would imagine him as a great warrior, with his shield up, protecting me from attacks by Leo and Ursa, and all those other monsters of the sky."

"Quite the imagination," he said, with not a small amount of admiration.

Kate scoffed, reluctant to be flattered. "No, just lots of time alone." She shivered as his fingers touched the places that he knew would have a melting effect.

"I thought you had brothers."

"I did, five of them." She smiled into the dark at her recollections. "I'd sneak into their room sometimes and we'd watch the stars from there. My second oldest brother would make up the most incredible, scary tales, that would keep me awake all night."

"Doesn't sound like 'alone.'"

"My mother insisted it wasn't proper for a girl to be in the same room with boys, even though they were my brothers. I was caught several times, because I either fell asleep on the porch, or started crying, because the boys had scared me so badly."

"Must have been quite the tale," he snorted. "You've never struck me as the type to scare easily."

"I was... did... but I was young. I grew up."

His hand tightened on her ankle, a silent admission that he understood those growing pains, through the travails of his own maturation, the lessons that came so hard as a youth, and the loss of the innocence that allowed a child to be scared by a tale about stars.

"In the southern Pacific," Jack began, his hand resuming its explorations, "they say the Milky Way was made by one of their gods, who went about in a canoe, collecting heaps of stars, and then scattered them in the sky, to light the way for those at sea."

"There were natives that lived not far from us—when I was young. They believed that the Milky Way was the Path of Ghosts, the entrance to the spirit land. Supposedly, there was an owl that guarded the entrance, inspecting each spirit, as they were blown there, by the wind from the North Star. Each spirit had to have a tattoo on their wrist—or somewhere else—or they would be denied entrance and thrown into a bottomless abyss."

A frisson ran through her, Jack pausing, as well. It would seem the fates might have been looking out for him in advance. How ironic would it be if that mark would prove to be his salvation? She hoped so. If a primitive Indian lore was what would allow him safe passage to any world, anywhere, then so be it.

"The Norsemen thought it was the hero's path to Valhalla," Jack went on, blithely dismissing the issue. "The Greeks believed it was the milk of Juno, spilled as she nursed her infants."

"Brian said that the Celts believed there was a goddess that walked the night sky, and the Hawthorne blossoms that fell from her robe became the Milky Way."

She bit her tongue, instantly regretting having mentioned Brian. Jack's hand stalled for a moment, and then slipped away, their fragile bond broken. Acutely aware that any reference to Brian made Jack uncomfortable, it was a constant battle not to speak of Brian, and most of the time she was successful. She debated whether to say something, apologize, or to just leave well enough alone. Nobody likes to have a sore place picked, but it hurt to think that she might have hurt him.

Brian did seem to be on her mind, for the last few days. But, given the clarity of his last visit, it could hardly have been otherwise. His presence had been so vivid, and the touch of his kiss had been so real, she had been left with a somewhat unsettled feeling.

Jack seemed to view her lost husband as a barrier, to either be circumvented or overcome. The rivalry was certainly one-sided, for obvious reasons. Jack continued to vow that he would find her Brian, regardless of how many times, or how vehemently, that she tried to convince him otherwise. Jack was resolute, stalwartly stubborn, and single-mindedly hardheaded.

Jack's hand cautiously returned to her leg; she was forgiven. Typical Jack: shaking the unpleasant away and resuming, as if it had never been said.

"Aye." Jack's graveled voice took on an unusual dreamy sound. "In Japan, they call it the River to Heaven. They tell a tale of an emperor, whose daughter was the world's most beautiful weaver. She spent all her days, sitting on the bank of the River to Heaven, weaving robes, and suchlike, for her father. Finally," he said, with a derisive note. "And rightly so, I might add, she became a might cross, because she hadn't the time to fall in love."

Just the sound of the word from his lips gave Kate a thrill. Rarely did she allow herself the wishful fantasy of hearing him say it. Even now, just to hear him speak the word, if only in passing, gave her had an elating effect.

"Good father, and wise and perceptive man, that he was," Jack continued, "the Emperor realized this and arranged a suitable marriage, with a gent from the other side of the river."

"Oh, dear. Those rarely go well," Kate snickered.

"Aye, well, he had the wisdom to chose wisely, except he did too good o' job. They fell madly in love; couldn't leave each other alone." His hand flexed on her ankle, leaving it unclear if it were a silent message, or just a jerk reflex at the mention of marriage. "It didn't take long for the old man to realize his folly; the daughter was spending all her time, in wifely fashion, with her betrothed, and not weaving." He angled his head to look up to her through his lashes. "Bloody difficult to concentrate, at times."

"Anyway," he went on, settling back. He one-handedly slipped off her shoe, and began tracing the arch of her foot, fondling her toes. "The old blighter could only see one self-serving solution: he separated the newly weds, one on each side of the River."

"That's awful." Kate could recall her first months of marriage all too well. Separation under any circumstance would have been devastating.

"If," he went on, lifting an exclamatory finger, "the daughter did her work well, they would be allowed one day per year together. From the mouth of the River to Heaven would come the Boatman of the Moon, to ferry the daughter across."

"How generous," Kate snorted, shuddering slightly as Jack's touch danced across her foot, visualizing his long fingers as they drifted from one toe to the other, around and between.

"Aye, the seventh day of the seventh month was to be their time. If she didn't perform her best, that bloody bastard of a father would conjure the rain, hence flooding the River to Heaven, keeping the two lovers apart."

He paused, his thumb stroking the curve of her arch.

"That's sad," her voice sounding a bit strained.

Jack's shoulder moved against her leg as he shrugged. "Aye, well, as luck would have it, Providence prevailed. Opportune moments and what not, a flock of magpies gathered, and made a bridge—of some sort or another—allowing the daughter to cross."

"And they lived happily ever after?"

Sounding either slightly tired, or perhaps a bit bored with the tale, Jack sighed, gripping her foot firmer. "I have no idea."

The watch bell sounded, breaking their spell. Giving her foot a departing squeeze, Jack rose with his usual athletic grace.

"Are you all right?" she asked, as he resettled his coat and weapons.

He jerked, a bit startled by her question. "Aye."

It was a quick, off-handed response, in a hopeful attempt to avoid and dismiss. As he made to leave, Kate caught him by the arm and pulled him back, catching his eyes with hers and holding them.

"Are you all right?" she repeated, quieter, but with a firmer conviction.

One corner of his mustache lifted as a small smile grew, unaccustomed as he was at having someone who noticed or cared.

"Aye. To put it as eloquently and succinctly as you often do: I'm fine." His eyes started to drift aft, and the ship that trailed closely behind the _Pearl_, but quickly jerked them back. "It's just the sooner we get this over with, the better for all of us. " He touched her cheek; his fingers warm against her night-cooled skin. "I'll come to you after me watch. Look for me."

Kate shivered at the sudden chill at Jack's absence. It was a warm night and it was difficult to imagine anyone feeling alone on a ship of nearly seventy souls, but she felt both as the sound of his boots faded as he went aft. The sensations were common, ones that she faced down whenever he wasn't near. Unfortunately, for her, the length of a ship didn't qualify as 'near'.

Still, she consoled herself with the argument—a daily one, at that—that the watch was only four hours, and then she would have him back. She glanced up at the stars through the ship's rigging. Orion's belt would have to be well past the aft shrouds, before that time would come. Granted, the watch bells would tick off the hours, but she found the perpetual movement of the constellations more comforting than the clanging of a bell.

Footsteps on the bow pulpit drew her attention. Kate rose and peered below over the rail. The light of the lanterns was blocked by the forecastle, rendering the area dim and murky, a shadow moved, followed by a faint clank. Amid the rustle of the waves at the bow, and the wind in the jibs overhead, it was difficult to know exactly where the sound had come from. It could have been from the bow, or it could have been from somewhere on the main deck. Sound had an odd way of bouncing off the water, onto the sails, and then back down again, refracting it to the point of impossible to define its place of origin.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, before she could make out a solitary figure. It was Barker. Kate could see the ghostly blur of his shirt and the starlit gleam of his nearly baldhead. She vaguely thought it odd that he would be so undressed, he didn't strike her as the sort that would succumb so completely to the _familier_ of the sea.

"Captain Barker?"

Starting, he looked up, disarmed to find her observing him.

"Good e'en, Madame," he mumbled, quickly dropping his head.

"Fine evening, isn't it?"

"Eh? Oh, aye... aye, I suppose so," he said vaguely to the deck.

Barker pointedly avoided looking at her. It was unclear if the man just didn't feel inclined toward conversation, or if he found her to be objectionable. In many social circles, his failure to look at her as he spoke would have been considered an insult, most particularly to a lady. But she was no lady, as he had readily implied, and this was no social circle.

Still, Kate felt a driving need to talk with Barker. Jack's past was always an intrigue; Barker was one of the very few people that she had met, that had known Jack before life had changed and hardened him. She couldn't help but feel that the more she could get to know about Jack's past, the more she could come to understand the man he was now.

Barker seemed inclined toward pacing, and yet he moved hunched over and heavy, with a stiff awkwardness that was exceptionally unusual for a mariner. She dismissed it to either the cramped space on the bow pulpit or the motions of the ship, although, under closer examination, neither of those answers would have been a sensible explanation for a man who had lived at sea most of his life.

"You seem to be too fine of a person to be mussing about with these... people... _him,_" he added, with a final emphasis that left little doubt as to whom he meant.

Barker's sudden turn of conversation caught Kate off guard, leaving her momentarily groping for words. What with the wind and the waves, his voice was diffused to the point of near obscurity. Still, she had heard enough to leave her wondering if she had just been flattered, or the men of the _Pearl_—most particularly Jack—had just been insulted.

A small voice asked why she was so suddenly pre-occupied with what would be deemed proper. Her only answer was that Barker had a way about him, a judgmental propriety that made a person want to carefully examine, and measure, every move they made and every word they spoke.

"They've been very kind to me," she finally replied, thinking perhaps she was just being over-sensitive.

"Yes, I would imagine they have."

As distracted as he seemed, there was a distinct cut in that comment that left little doubt this time: he was most decidedly not being complimentary, and she bristled. With a fleeting thought, she fancied as to the outcome, if any of the crew—most particularly Jack—had overheard.

"I apologize, Madame," he said, cutting into her thoughts. "I've been a bit... off."

Admittedly, he seemed jittery and distracted. In spite of his intent, "Madame" still held a bite that many would find an affront. She could see now what Jack had meant about Barker. She had taken Jack's warnings regarding Barker, as being related to a concern for her personal safety; insult hadn't been a consideration. It was now. Barker seemed to be one of those unfortunate souls that, no matter how hard he tried; he couldn't help but rub everyone the wrong way, even when he was trying to be cordial.

Still, by his voice and demeanor, it struck her that Barker was under a great deal of distress. Grating and annoying as he might be, that didn't mean that the man didn't deserve a bit of compassion.

"It's a lovely night," Kate called down, raising her voice enough to be heard over wind and water. "I'd love to have someone to chat with. Would you care to come up here and share a seat? It's a lovely view."

Barker's shoulders hunched, as if she had just suggested he partake of something quite lewd.

"No... thank you," he said, resolutely shaking his head. "No, it's hopeless. It's all hopeless."

"Then perhaps I should come down there."

"No!" he blurted then collected himself. Straightening with some effort, Barker moved closer to the open edge of the bow pulpit in a single, decisive step. "Be well, Miss. "

"Excuse me?" Kate leaned over the rail further. "I didn't quite..."

"Take care of yourself, Miss," he said slightly louder, staring at the black water. "And please… don't go ashore."

Kate caught the gleam of something dark and round at his chest. Straining to look closer, she could make out the pattern of chain, black and ominous, against the light of his shirt. In a stunning flash, she realized it was chain shot—two cannon balls, the size of a man's fist, connected by chain—hanging around his neck. In that same instant, he stepped forward and disappeared over the edge of the deck, a faint splash marking as he hit the water.

Speechless, it took what seemed a lifetime before Kate could find her voice.

"Man overboard!"

**"Here."**

Sniffing, Kate looked up to find a glass thrust in her face. Jack rolled his eyes, as he had been doing for the last while, in the process of trying to be patient. He was still struggling to comprehend how she could be so emotionally distraught, over the demise of someone he barely considered worthy of conversation.

"It's port," he said, shoving the glass closer.

The lights of the cabin glistened in bright flares in the tears that still filled her eyes and hung in her lashes as Kate sat back in her chair. Obediently, she took the glass and sipped. Jack gave a terse gesture, urging her to take another, larger. She did, and then leaned her head back, waiting for the liquor to work its magic. Her throat was still raw from screaming for the crew to move faster after Barker's leap, when they were already responding as quickly as was humanly possible, and the waves of sobbing that had overcame her since.

The port burned as it went down, but quickly built a warm glow in her stomach, steadying her, much to Jack's relief. He had been hovering over her since he had ushered her into the cabin, with an arm around her shoulders, shushing her stunned hysterics. Since then, he had been vacillating wildly, between his concern for her and his baffled irritation with Barker.

"So, that's it? Just like that?" she demanded, shooting him an accusing look.

"What would you have me do?" he pleaded, throwing his hands in the air. "We're under full sail, under the cover of darkness, with at least a five-foot sea running. We'd be bloody lucky to find him, if it were full daylight, allowing that he wanted to be found."

"Aye, Mr. Kate," put in Gibbs. He'd been standing in the doorway of the cabin, in the spirit of offering his support, but afraid to enter any further into a room, with a crying woman. "He's with Davy Jones, now."

Jack jerked, his lip curling with disgust. His reaction struck both Kate and Gibbs as a bit over-reactive. References to the Keeper of the Dead, was certainly commonplace. Kate frowned over the top of her glass, then glanced over to see Gibbs giving Jack a strained look as well, only to be dismissed with a flap of the hand when Jack looked up and saw him. Taking the hint, Gibbs ducked a salute and left, Jack staring thoughtfully after him.

"It's over and done, darling," Jack announced, snapping his attention back to the cabin. He resumed the pacing, which he had been doing since he had seen Kate seated. "He's made his choice; the least we can do is allow him his peace. Why the bloody hell, didn't the man have the good grace, or consideration, not to do that right in front of you, I'll never know?"

"I don't think he was particularly rational, at the moment," Kate had pointed out with asperity.

"Don't be defending him!" he warned, halting in mid-stride long enough to shake a finger. "There are certainly better ways to face ones misgivings than that!"

Pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, Kate closed her eyes and reviewed those final moments of Barker's life for the hundredth time. "I thought there was something strange—but I never imagined that..."

"No rational person would." Jack's voice came from behind her as he circled the room. "Don't berate yourself for not fathoming the irrational—and bloody stupid—mind."

Kate curled her fist, softly thumping the table. "I should have been able to help..."

"Help what?" Jack demanded, whirling back on her.

"Stop him... somehow... help him from being so desperate."

"Tach!" he growled, his hands arcing in the air. "The man was bent on destruction. Chances are if you had gotten all tangled up with him, he might have taken you with him. Best leave things they way they are."

She gave him a withering stare, thinking perhaps, if he were given a few moments to calm down, he would realize the error in his thinking.

He didn't.

"He's been a doomed man his whole life—it was only a matter of time," Jack finally announced, throwing up his hands again after returning her stare with a blank one of his own. "At least, this way, there's only the loss of him."

"Jack!"

"Would you prefer he take an entire ship and crew with him?" he argued, coming back around to stop before her.

"I'd prefer to think neither," Kate sighed, attempting to rub away her growing headache.

"Ah, but 'neither' isn't a choice, is it? Blessed few of us ever gets what we want... not always, at any rate." Tossing his hat aside, he sat down heavily in his captain's chair. Slumping, he propped his head in his hand, and looked glumly at the table. "I'd like to think you might save a bit of that remorse for me… some day."

Kate quickly took another drink in hopes of washing down that sickening thought. They had just found each other. She couldn't bear to face loosing him now… or anytime, soon or a lifetime away.

Jack's head came up, his eyes lingering for a moment at the silvery gleam of her wedding ring as her hand rested on the table. Then his eyes rose up to hers, with a heart-stopping look, laden with both trouble and hope.

"The most any man can hope for is to, at least, be remembered." The thought of death didn't seem to drag at him as heavily as the thought that his passing might go forgotten.

Setting her glass on the table, Kate rose. With a touch on his shoulder, she nudged him back into his chair, and then sat on his lap. She gently kissed him. "You're not that easy to forget."

Guarded relief lit his eyes, and he exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath. "Really?" Catching himself, he sobered as he lifted a casual hand. "I knew that."

Worming her way between the butt of his pistol and handle of his sword, Kate settled more comfortably against Jack, his arms slipping around her waist. As she melted into his embrace, she nestled her head into the crook of his neck, his hair both soft and springy beneath her head. They both sighed in contentment, and then fell quiet, they breathing falling into a synchronized rhythm.

As if out of reverence for the dead, the breeze had laid, leaving the _Pearl_ to fall quiet. The crew had taken Barker's leap and consequent death as just another capricious moment in life, but a hushed sense of respect did permeate the ship.

"Do you remember the last—and the first, truth be told—time we did this?" Jack's hand slid up under her hair, resting at the nape of her neck, his thumb tenderly stroking her ear.

Unable to summon the energy to speak, Kate squirmed her head, indicating that she didn't.

"Aye, well, I do," he said with conviction, his voice resonating through her cheek. "It was this very chair, in this very place, the first day you were aboard." He spoke with a quiet confidence, as if she was a child, and he was telling a bedtime tale. "You were wrapped in naught but me quilt."

She sputtered a quiet snicker. "I was so afraid." Her own voice sounded childish, weak and small.

"Of me?"

"No, of course not." She moved her head enough to kiss his neck, his pulse throbbing under her lips. "I was never afraid of you. It was just... everything else," she ended lamely, too tired to articulate what she had been feeling at a time that seemed so long ago.

Between the emotional exhaustion, the port and the reassuring strength and warmth of Jack's arms around her, Kate's eyelids grew heavy; the slow rise and fall of his chest lulling her closer and closer to slumber.

"I wanted you then."

Jack's words were distant, clouded in the fog of the netherworld between awake and not, leaving her unsure if they were reality, or a dream. A myriad of questions rose, and collided in her head, but was too muddled to form any of them.

"I wanted you then, Kitty," he whispered into her hair. "And, mark me well, by all that's holy, I swear, I will always want you."

His voice was a vague echo, as she succumbed to the pull of sleep.


	4. Chapter 4: Île du Bienveillant

**Chapter Four: Île du Bienveillant**

**Anticipation** had been building aboard the_ Black Pearl,_ and finally peaked when the hunched back of Île du Bienveillant broke the flat line of the horizon.

"An honest bit o' piratin'," Gibbs said, with a gleam in his eye, and gusto in his voice.

Kate found it ironic in the word 'honest' being used in reference to 'piratin'', but took it in the spirit it had been intended. The prospect of conflict was a bit disquieting, but the pirates of the _Black Pearl_ met it with genuine relish. Fighting was routine… and expected. They were pirates, about to do what pirates do. She had to admit, the excitement was contagious, her own heart began pounding, blood racing at the prospect of what might lay ahead.

Her next thought doused whatever enthusiasm she had been harboring: pirating would require leaving the ship, which meant Jack would be going... and he would be intending to leave her aboard.

Not bloody likely, to use Jack's own words.

Kate's concerns, however, were temporarily lost in the flurry of preparations. As the ship's resident sharpener-of-the-blades, she was called into unending service. Bent over her hone stone with the small blades, the grating rasp of the grinding wheel echoed up from below decks as axes, pikes, hooks, swords, and all other manner of implements of destruction were given a new edge. The smelting pots were put into full production, their bellies glowing red-hot, the smell of molten lead permeating the air in an acrid fog, as lead shot was poured as fast as the over-heating molds would allow. Under-shadowing the hot, metallic odor was the more delicate smell of neat's foot oil as every pistol, musket and blunderbuss were inspected and cleaned, flints finely tuned, touchholes cleared, and barrels reamed. Powder horns were filled to brimming from the magazine, and shot pouches to overflowing.

Barker's untimely demise had left an uncertainty as to the whats and wheres to be expected upon their arrival at the plantation on Bienveillant, but those details seemed of minor consequence. Jack and Gibbs concurred on the speculation that someone among the _Clothilde's _crew might be able to shed some light on the unknowns, but that interview was relegated to until they were ashore. Jack was not of a mood to ease the _Pearl's_ sails, in order to drop a longboat back to the trailing ship, for that small bit of information.

The closer the ships drew to Île du Bienveillant, the more the wind freshened, growing stiffer on the ships' sterns. Jack took it as a good sign as the _Pearl_ picked up speed. The towropes stretched, groaning under their load. Even with a stiff wind on her back, the _Clothilde_ was still unable to match the_ Pearl's _speed.

The sun had well passed its zenith, casting long shadows across the decks, when they neared Bienveillant sufficiently to be able to make out individual trees amid the spans of vegetation. Typical of most of the Caribbean islands, Bienveillant crouched with its rocky back arched high, sloping sharply down to the surrounding azure waters. The first stretches of shore were mangrove-tangled, but eventually gave way to the omnipresent expanses of white sand and palm trees.

Jack's charts showed a navigable bay that lay part way around the island. Since ships would be an integral link between the plantation and the outside world, it was a reasonable assumption that the main house would be somewhere near there. Lookouts were sent to the mastheads and bow, on the alert not only for the first sight of the bay, but also the multitude of treacheries that could lurk just below the surface in unfamiliar waters.

As the _Pearl _rounded a point, another sight came into view that caught everyone aboard by surprise. A ship sat just inside the arc of the cove, wrecked. Leaning on her keel, the water lapped at her heavily barnacled hull.

"Look at that, Cap'n!"

"Aye, I see, Gibbs," Jack replied, with a faint reverence.

In the waning light, the ship cast skeletal, amorphous shadows across the wind-stirred water. Chilled by the specter of the deserted hulk, the wreck's tattered sails fluttering like widow's weeds at her yards, Kate slipped sideways at the rail, closer to Jack.

"'Tis a sad sight," Gibbs sighed, shaking his head, his mutton-chopped face drooping. "'Pears as she was in full sail."

The _Pearl_ sagged. No doubt, the motion was a direct result of towing the _Clothilde_, but Kate still couldn't help but feel that the _Pearl _was shying away, taking warning from the other ship's misfortune, and, at the same time, offering her respects for a fallen comrade. In silent tribute, the _Black Pearl's_ pirate crew lined the rails, murmuring hushed speculations as to the cause of the wreck. All aboard were sharply mindful of the fate that could befall any of them, at any time.

"Hasn't' been there long," Gibbs noted.

Tilting his head, Jack scanned the ship with a trained eye. "Maybe a year; not much more."

"Aye," nodded Gibbs. "Not much more. 'Pears as though a wave just brought 'er in, 'n dropped 'er where she sits." He rolled a conspiratorial eye skyward. "Mebbe she was tryin' to manage in just such a wind."

Jack turned a withering look on his first mate. "Don't start, Gibbs! Yes, it's an unseasonable wind, but it's no curse. Only if it's still blowing when we're trying to clear out of here," he added under his breath as he brushed past. "Which won't be happening," he announced louder as a broad warning. "Because, if she's still blowing like this, we'll _still_ be at anchor. Mind your crew, Master Gibbs!"

Spinning, Gibbs stiffened at the idle collection of men at the rail. "All right, ye…."

**Too** eager to wait for the sun to relinquish its possession of the sky, the moon had already begun its journey across the sky. A hot-orange disc, it promised a well-lit night—considered by many to be a sign of good luck. After swinging wide, to clear the reefs that loomed just at the depth of the _Pearl's_ keel, the lookouts spotted the entrance of Bienveillant's bay.

"As soon as we make that bay, we'll leave 'er free." Jack angled his head, indicating the _Clothilde._ "They can bloody well mind their own anchors, whilst we tend ours. Standby the ready."

"Odd, wind, Cap'n, what with the direction and all. It usually lays this time o' day." The lilt in Gibbs voice suggested the possibility of something far more onerous. "I don't like the look of it."

"Oddly unique, to be sure," Jack countered, raising his voice over the clamor of crew and riggings, drumming his fingers impatiently on the binnacle. "But decidedly _not_ oddly ominous. I don't like the look of it either. 'Tis a fair wind, going in…"

"Aye, but if it holds, there'll be hell to pay tryin' to get out."

"Maybe it will change, within the night," Jack shrugged. "If we're lucky," he added as a quiet afterthought.

Gibbs rolled a dubious look. "'Tis a thin bet, Cap'n."

Jack rolled his own look. "Aye, thin, but the only one we have. Sing out on those soundings!" Jack bellowed. The wind was nearly blowing their words back into their throats. "All haste, Mr. Gibbs. No joy in finding an anchor in the dark—and with this wind to boot."

The wind was forcing everyone on deck to shout louder than the usual level. Sailing was a noisy business, and with the shrouds vibrating, sails thrumming through the hull and the rigors of locating an anchorage to the captain's satisfaction, the _Pearl_ would have sounded like barely organized chaos, to those unfamiliar with such conditions. The off-duty men gathered in small, scattered groups along the rail, oblivious to the bedlam on deck, eagerly talking up what might lie ahead.

"How about over there?" Gibbs suggested hopefully.

Jack peered through the glass, and shook his head. "Nay, looks to be all reef. I'd rather a good hook in sand, than snagged on some bloody stump of coral."

"Coral holds," Gibbs argued, following Jack down the gangway, to the forecastle.

"Well enough, aye, when 'tis flat," Jack yelled back over his shoulder, weaving his way through the laboring seamen. "But let the wind shift—which it will, you mark me on that—and you'll be slipping your anchor, and on the rocks before you can say, 'Bob's your uncle'. Sand it shall be! The hooks will hold, and we'll all get a night's rest. Sound off, Baines!" he shouted as he mounted the foredeck.

"Twenty-two, by the mark, sir!"

"Ease off, helm!" Jack bellowed, cupping his hand to his mouth.

"Ease off!" echoed down the deck, in a relay from man to man, until it reached the afterdeck.

"Nineteen, by the mark!"

"Eighteen, by the mark!

"We'll drop anchor at twelve," Jack called to the anchor crews at the cat poles. "Stand ready!"

"Fifteen."

"Thirteen"

"Ready!"

"Twelve, on the mark!"

"Away all anchors! Lay 'er in irons!"

As if she had heard, the _Pearl_ brought her nose to the wind, stalling as the anchors were dropped. With a jerk of his hand, Jack sent the men scurrying to stow the last bit of canvas flying, at the bow and topsails. He lingered on the foredeck, checking the lead lines, and watching the _Pearl's_ drift as her anchor lines were played out.

"Tie off and hold fast!" was his final proclamation of a satisfactory anchorage had been achieved—much to the relief of all.

"It's a long row," Jack qualified, as he passed Gibbs, mounting the aft gangway. "But a good anchor; we're going to need it in this wind. Lock up your mothers and sisters, mates!" he shouted down over the afterdeck rail. "The decks'll be dark tonight. No sense in advertising that we're here," he said under his breath as he drew up next to Kate.

"Wouldn't they have seen us come in?" It seemed an obvious point to Kate as she stood scanning the dark landscape.

Jack shrugged. "Maybe... probably, especially if they were expecting Bumpy's arrival. His ship wouldn't cause alarm, and they could have seen us towing her. Hopefully, they will just think we're lying to, weathering it out."

He moved back to the rail "Who did you send over there?" he shouted down to Gibbs, indicating the far ship_._

Gibbs stopped in mid-stride, and glanced to the spot where the _Clothilde_ had last been seen, setting own her anchors. The night had taken full control by then, and she was but a dark silhouette amid the moon-sparkled water_._

"Moya, Niemenin, Soo and Shalken."

Jack gave a satisfied nod. "Good men. They'll know what's to be done." Jack looked thoughtfully toward shore, a black line above the white gleam of sand. "I'd prefer going in there, with something more in the way of what we're looking for."

"Treasure's treasure, Cap'n," Gibbs called up, confidently. "We'll know it when we see it."

**Jack** had no more declared the anchors set, than the crew burst into a flurry of eager preparation, the longboats already on their davits. Being Quartermaster in Command—a new title created in light of the dual positions Gibbs and Kate shared—Gibbs would be in charge of the first landing party, and set to his duties in a business-like fashion.

Jack stood at the table in his cabin, checking his pistol for a final time, while Kate paced around the edges of the room. He had thrown her a tired look several times, obviously with the intended message being that of her unnecessarily worrying, but then relented when he realized that his efforts were wasted.

Kate was caught on the proverbial horns of dilemma, between plotting as to how she was going to make Jack take her with him, and seizing every opportunity to commit to memory every last detail of him.

When Jack wasn't looking, occupied with honing his sword to a final gleaming edge, or priming his pistol, she clandestinely studied him, taking him in: his long-nosed profile a sharp silhouette against the light streaming in through the thick, waved of the gallery, the square set of his shoulders as he turned, and the lithe twist of his body as he slid the sword back into its place at his side. She watched his hands, so finely boned, his elegant fingers manipulating the ramrod and frisson. She could remember the feel of those hands, in so many places, and the touch of his lips that rested vulnerably under his mustache, moving with the tumble of private thoughts behind those inscrutable walnut eyes.

How enduring could those memories be? If he were gone—a few days, a week… a lifetime—how long could the body recall? She watched his shadow move across the floor; that ghostly image might be all she would ever have.

Hard-learned lessons had taught Kate that certain memories lingered more readily than others: the sound of a voice or laugh, the rhythm of a step, or a turn of a phrase. But others faded so quickly, too quickly, no matter how frantically one clung to them: the softness of a kiss, the warmth of an embrace, or that musty scent just after having made love. True, the body recalled easily those all as pleasurable, but to the exactness so desperately sought on lonely nights? No.

"Can't count the number of times I've done this," had been Jack's easy reply to Kate's worried queries. "It's what we do, darling, and why we are who we are."

That small bit of wisdom was offered as if it would somehow magically set Kate's mind at ease. It didn't.

Settling it into his belts, Jack turned to Kate and cupped her face in his hands. He was attempting to appear confident, but uncertainty pinched the corners of his eyes and deepened the furrows at his brow. More than anyone, he knew that final farewells weren't always planned.

"I'll be saying me good-byes here."

He bent to kiss her as Kate pulled away, taking several steps back. "Good-byes? I'm going with you."

Jack smiled cautiously, wary, but taking it as a jest. "No, you're not."

A cold ball began to form in the pit of her stomach. Jack had said exactly what she had expected, but knowing it was coming didn't make hearing it any easier. This wasn't just a matter of the quaking damsel being sequestered in her ivory tower. Nor was it a matter of her driving need to go pillaging, brandishing a sword. It had barely been over a week, since she had returned to the _Pearl_, and the anguish of separation was still too fresh to consider reliving it.

"Yes, I am. You're not going to leave me sitting out here in the dark, wondering what's happening to you." Kate balled a fist against her skirt, willing her voice to stop quaking.

"_You_," Jack began, narrowing one eye as he stalked closer, "are going to be doing _exactly_ that."

He was within inches of her before he stopped, trying to impose himself on her. She wasn't about to be intimidated that easily. Setting her chin, Kate retreated another step, to allow room for a firmer stance.

"No, I'm not." To her relief, each word came out in solid, singular defiance.

"Yes, you are," Jack hissed. Brushing past her, he snatched his hat from the table on his way out the door. "You're staying here, where it's safe," he called over his shoulder while settling his hat in place.

Scrambling to catch up, Kate grabbed him by the arm and pulled him around. "I'm no safer here, than I would be with you."

"Yes, you are."

"Am not!" Her color was beginning to run high.

"Am, too!" Jack sputtered as he searched for another line of attack. " The last time I let you ashore, I found you kissing that bloody friend of yours, Norrington."

"That was the _first_ time. The _last_ time you left me aboard, I was kidnapped."

Kate wasn't sure where that reproach came from, but there it was, and there was no taking it back. She had never consciously harbored any such blame; being taken by Beckett's men wasn't Jack's fault. But the fact remained, that Jack had left her on the ship, and, when he returned, she wasn't there.

Jack flinched, her words digging deeper than she had intended. The hurt only seemed to strengthen his resolve. "It's not as if I planned that!"

"I'm the quartermaster." It wasn't exactly pulling rank, but it was a reminder of her duties, an issue on which Jack was usually scrupulous. "I should be there, overseeing."

"No," Jack corrected, through clenched teeth. "The quartermaster should be here," he said, pointing a rigid finger at the deck, "_overseeing_."

As the crew went about their duties, they gave the fuming, nose-to-nose pair a wide berth, fearful of bringing the wrath of either their captain, or an enraged woman, down upon them.

With an inspirational light in his eye, Jack was the first one to break the impasse. "Captain give orders on the ship." Jerking his head, he turned victoriously away, clearly thinking he had just trumped all other arguments.

"Fine!" Kate followed on his heels like a terrier. "I'll go ashore, and then I won't have to listen, will I?"

Jack froze in mid-step, his face reddening under his tan as he pivoted back. "Disobey me orders, and I'll have you thrown in the brig."

Now it was Kate that stiffened. Jack's belligerence was too much like her brothers, and their attempts to bully her when she was young. Being boys, they had always had the upper hand, with advantages of both size and age.

Jack held all the same advantages; knowing that only served to make her dig her heels in all the deeper. He had the strength and authority to make her do anything he desired. In all probability, the only thing holding him back was his fear of the repercussions that might follow. There were times when she definitely had the impression that he didn't quite know what to do with her.

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, wouldn't I?" Jack countered, propping his hands on his hips. The smug mocking in his eyes only challenging her that much more.

Chests heaving, they squared off again, arms crossed and feet planted, boring each other with daggered looks, the irresistible force meeting the immovable object, opposing forces of nature at work. Kate's eyes stung as the wind whipped the ends of her hair into them, but she refused to give Jack the satisfaction of blinking, or any movement that would give the impression that she were yielding. This wasn't how she had wanted this to go. If Jack were to leave her behind, this ugliness could be her last memory of him—and his of her. It was hardly the stuff of romance.

Still given a choice, she would take bruised feelings over being alone, anytime. Feelings healed; being alone only got worse.

They stood so close there was a split moment when she thought she saw something move deep in Jack's burning glare, though it never wavered when he shouted. "Mr. Gibbs!"

"Aye, Cap'n?" Gibbs cautiously sidled near as the other men slinked further away.

"Find this nagging, ill-favored, noisome fishwife some weapons." Jack stepped away, darting a sharp glance from Kate to Gibbs, and then back. "'Course, she already possesses the most fearsome, and deadliest weapon known to mankind—her mouth!" He turned on his heel to storm away, only to spin back and stab a finger in her face. "Don't you _dare_ get hurt!" he growled and wheeled off.

Within moments, a pistol, small by most standards, was shoved into Kate's hand. A hand at the back of her head bent it down, and a baldric was dropped over it, the worn leather falling heavy and solid across her chest.

"Ye shouldn't vex him so," Gibbs said under his breath, fumbling with the buckle to adjust the belt.

"I couldn't bear being left behind." Kate knew it sounded whinny and lame, but it couldn't be helped.

"And none of us could bear it, if somethin' was to happen, sir," Gibbs said circumspectly. "Life would go very badly for all aboard the _Black Pearl_." With a grunt, he gave the sword belt a yank, and then gave her a final, visual inspection. "There, that should do ye. Here's your sword, lass. And mind what you've been learnt."

Turning the hilt in her hands, Kate saw it was the same sword she had used during her lessons, barely two months past.

"Gibbs." She pulled him back as he turned to go. "Does he really worry all that much?"

Gibbs' grey eyes shifted as he measured how much more should be said. "All the time, sir." Glancing over his shoulder to make sure Jack was out of earshot, he leaned closer. "Keepin' you safe is his biggest worry, from the first, to the last. And, 'tis the charge of every tar on this ship."

**The** men selected for the first landing party had gathered at the rail. Like hounds awaiting the hunt, they impatiently waited as landing nets were lowered, and were soon over the side and were away, Gibbs in the lead.

Kate suspected the hardest part would be then: waiting for the boats to return, to pick up their next loads. The wind hadn't subsided, as it typically did at nightfall, and the black waters of the bay were beginning to froth with lace-topped whitecaps.

As she waited, Kate's palms became sweaty, and she surreptitiously wiped them on her skirt. She had seen battle before. It was nothing to celebrate, but neither was it something that she found appalling. The constant ache in her shoulder, where the scar from a dragoon's saber pressed down on the bone, was a steady reminder of the consequences that could come of hand-to-hand combat. Brian had seen battle as a nasty, but sometimes unavoidable and necessary business; Jack seemed to be much of the same mind.

Jack stood some distance away, making a point of ignoring her. She could tell by the jerk of his shoulders that he was irritated, and maybe a little bit angry. But what she didn't know was why: was it because she had refused to be left, or because she had challenged his authority? She was confident that her questions would be answered soon enough. Jack could hide a myriad of thoughts behind that façade of his, except his vexations with her. Those always had a way of raising their heads, seeping through the chinks of his protective armor. Some how, some way, it would come out. The only question remaining at that point was, when?

She watched the shoreline carefully, looking for any signs of what might be happening. From their first, the plantation had shown no lights, nor signs of occupation. Chimneys could be seen poking up through the trees, outbuildings and fields had been spotted as they had cleared the point approaching the bay. Jack and Gibbs had spent time with the spyglass in advance, peering at the shoreline and speculating what the best approach might be.

As Kate waited, she occasionally thought she heard gunshots, but by the time the sound had staggered across the water, it was so wind-battered, it was difficult to be certain. The orange specks of torches sporadically bobbed among the bushes and under the trees, but little else could be seen.

Eventually—finally—the low outline of the returning boats came into view, bearing telltale, white mustaches as their bows sliced through the waves. It was time.

To Kate's relief, Jack beckoned her to the entryway with a crook of his finger. If necessary, she would do what she must, but she wasn't sure if she could manage the landing nets, not in a skirt, at any rate. She wouldn't have put it past Jack to make her climb the roping just for spite, to teach her his own quiet little lesson. It would seem he was feeling gracious, at the moment.

He stood at the sea ladder, irritably drumming his fingers on the rail, making a great show of his impatience at having to wait for her. Tenting his hands, touching the tips to his forehead, he gave a mocking bow at her approach.

"By your leave, my liege," he murmured with an edge and a sharp look, but then lent a hand to see her down to the boat.

The oarsmen dug hard with every stroke, driving the boat's bow through the heavy chop of the bay. Jack stood at the bow, striking a pose for anyone who happened to look. His second biggest show was of ignoring her.

The peppering of sporadic gunfire drifted across the water, sounding more celebratory than combative. Kate touched the pistol at her belt then the hilt of her sword. Not uncomfortable in the presence of weapons, she was unaccustomed to carrying such cumbersome implements on her person. She was acutely aware of the weaponry that bristled from the boat, and wondered if it was in preparation for the anticipated conflict ahead, or in her defense.

The wind churning the tails of Jack's headscarf, shoulders squared for whatever lay ahead, Jack appeared to be every bit the pirate that he was. Looking up at his back, she wondered how many of the burdens he carried were on her account. In her fervor to be with him, it had never occurred to her at what cost. Anytime in the past, when he had voiced concerns regarding her welfare, she had thought he was referring only to the discomforts of living aboard a ship. Once again, it was not a matter of what Jack said, but what he didn't. Now, she understood his concerns… and his costs.

Guilt began to peek its ugly head. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that she hadn't understood before, but now she did, that she didn't mean to be such a burden, or cause so much trouble, and that all she ever wanted was to be with him. She wanted to tell him, but time and place precluded it. Soon, however; soon, she would tell him.

As much as Jack strove to maintain his nonconformist spirit, deep inside he was still a man, with the same honorable senses as so many others. Brian had been such a man, too. He had come from a ruling family, established, well respected, and as traditional as could be found in the Highlands. Jack was a pirate, diametrically opposite of everything Brian had been, and yet...

From opposite ends of society's spectrums, the two men met in the middle, on a common ground: to meet their responsibilities, whether it be administering an estate, or commanding a ship, and—most importantly and above all else—to care for their woman. Jack would care for her; he had already, as best as any man living in his world could. Touching the cool silver of her wedding ring, Kate wondered if Brian's spirit might have rested a bit easier if he had known that.

Perhaps he already did.

The shoreline was an eerie specter of torches trailing up and down, like over-grown fireflies, never lingering anywhere for very long. Excited, disembodied voices echoed from among the trees, and across the water in uneven waves, lending them to seem even more macabre.

When the longboat finally bumped the dock, Jack leaped lightly from the bow, his boots thudding hollowly on the boards. Leaving his men to tend the boat, he silently extended a Kate hand, grunting just a bit more than necessary with the effort of helping her up.

Glancing about, his attention zeroed in on three of the more stalwart crewmen.

"You and you and you," he barked, pointing a stern finger, and then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Watch her! _Anything_ happens to her, look forward to the same happening to you, savvy?" Pivoting, he gave Kate a hard look. "Wait here."

"Don't go," Kate unintentionally blurted out as Jack turned away.

Jack came around, not a little incredulous, his face wrinkling with curiosity. "What?"

"Don't go—please." She wasn't ordinarily given to premonitions, or allowing them much credence, but she had a strong one just then. "Something doesn't feel right. It might be dangerous."

An irony-laden quirk twitched his mouth, as the moonlight caught the line of his profile.

"Me exact thoughts not an hour ago."


	5. Chapter 5: Dark Landings

**Chapter Five: Dark Landings**

**Their** eyes bulging with the import of their assignment, Kate's newly assigned bodyguards nodded emphatically. With a quick dart of his eyes, Jack drew his pistol and led the remainder of the landing party away.

Ashore, the scene was even more surreal than from the water. Under the bobbing orange glow of their torches, the pirates were wraith-like apparitions, their disembodied shouts, coming at odd directions. The air was heavy and still, smelling of mold and dampness, with a slight scent of gun power riding the wind. Unconsciously, Kate's hand went to the hilt of her sword as she shivered at the feeling that someone was watching.

The soft grinding of Jack's boots on the gravel path to the house faded as quickly as his image as he stepped out of the moonlight and into the unlit murk under the trees. Barely visible, tucked among the trees and bushes, the house was barely visible, lurking like a child playing hide and seek, its windows oddly dark.

Time passed insufferably slow as Kate stood on the dock, waiting. In the protection of the trees, the wind was considerably less, leaving her with only the sounds of the water lapping at the dock's pilings, and the creak of the boards under foot as her guards triangulated around her shifted on their feet, to help mark the minutes. She strained for any sounds, gunshots, or the clash of swords, that might indicate what was transpiring, but other than the racket of pillaging, it was strangely quiet.

Kate cast a dubious eye toward the three men, evaluating her options; waiting was quickly losing out. Petrov was a square-made Russian, and Bazzi, Persian by birth, was a bull of a man with a disposition and countenance to match. Monfils was built like a brick, with an impassive, broad, African face that belied a basically cheerful nature. Despite of the bristle of weapons, the inherent bizarreness and trappings of pirates, and their attempts to look fierce, Bazzi's permanent state, notwithstanding, none of them posed a threat to her. They would never touch her; the worst they might do is tell their captain, and she figured she could handle Jack.

"Come on!" Unable to contain herself any longer, Kate bolted away, startling her bodyguards.

"Cap'n said as we should wait here," sputtered Bazzi, the first to find his voice.

"No, the Captain said _I_ was to wait here," Kate argued, over her shoulder as she went down the path. "_You_ were told to watch me."

"Cap'n's not gonna be happy if we don't follow orders," pointed out Petrov, raising his voice in order to be heard over the crunch of Kate's shoes in the gravel.

"Then I suggest you follow orders and come along." Kate's progress never slowed. "He's certainly not going to be happy if I'm off somewhere, and you're just standing there, alone."

Unable to pose a better argument, the trio exchanged shrugs and hurriedly followed in Kate's wake as she scurried up the path toward the house.

The three-quarter moon, partially skirted by a thin lacing of clouds, played ghostly silver on the fronds of Spanish moss that shrouded the trees along the path and in the dooryard. In true European tradition, the slate-roofed house proved to be a two-story affair, verandas encircling both floors being the only concession to the demands of tropical living. Brilliant blue paint peeked out between the climbing roses and other flowered vines that grew rampantly, with darker shutters robbed of their color in the moonlight. The estate's front doors stood open, and a bright wedge of lamplight spilled out across the bricks of the portico. The crunch of broken glass on the stone floor was Kate's welcome as she stepped into the foyer.

Once lavish, the house was now chaotic, with pirates running from room to room in wild-eyed enthusiasm. There were no mysteries where they were; one only had to listen for the sounds of destruction, emanating from nearly every room, upstairs and down. Several men brushed past, arms bulging with plunder ranging from silver services, trunks boiling over with clothing, rolls of carpet, paintings, chairs, and humidors. Diogo, burdened with a pile of books, rolled his eyes apologetically as he sidled past and out the door.

The house's floor plan consisted of a central foyer, and a curving staircase that led to a second floor gallery. Kate moved methodically from room to room, peering inside, dodging rampaging pirates to avoid collisions. Candles or lamps had been left burning in some of the rooms, illuminating the damage that had been wrought, in elongated shadows. Diverting her eyes, she tried not to see it, haunted by the thoughts of the family that must have lived here, their lives suddenly shattered by the arrival of the _Black Pearl._

In the far corner of the foyer, Kate came to a pair of carved-wood and tooled leather doors that stood partially ajar, the flicker of light from inside wedging between the cracks. The doors swung open easily at her touch, and she edged inside. It was a study, with an opulent desk to one side and walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. It was an impressive display; books were expensive and often difficult to come by, especially someplace as isolated as an island in the Caribbean. Such a collection was a testimonial to both the wealth and dedication of whomever had lived there.

Jack stood with his back toward the door, his head bent to a leather-bound volume he balanced in one hand.

"Do you ever do anything you're told?" he asked conversationally, not looking up as he idly thumbed through the pages.

"I waited," she replied lamely, moving further into the shadowed room.

He gave a derisive snort as he rifled through the pages. "That was most certainly _not_ the spirit of me intent."

Standing propped against the desk, the angle of his belts accentuating his hipshot stance, Jack added the book to a pile at his elbow, and then turned casually to select another. By the single candlestick on the desk, Kate scanned the titles of the richly bound books.

"Chaucer, Cervantes, Catullus…" she murmured, her finger running down the bindings. She nodded, impressed. "Very substantial reading."

One shoulder lifted and fell as Jack flipped through the pages of the next book. "Been in need of some fresh distractions."

She ducked her head in order to see the title of the book he held. He obligingly tipped it up to allow her an easier view, lifting one brow in anticipation of her reaction.

"Donne?" she asked, straightening. "John Donne?"

"Some very enlightening work, John Donne done."

Diogo and Baines came in, sweating and breathless. Looking up from Donne, Jack inclined his head toward the stack of books beside him. "Take those next."

Kate watched uneasily as the two men loaded up, craning their heads to see around their burdens. Jack flickered a glance her way and frowned, but opted to say nothing as he went back to his book.

"Jack...?"

The question in her voice caused him to look up. Kate bit her lip, uncertain if it were the proper time and place. But it was on her mind, and it needed saying.

"I'm sorry." It sounded so lame after she said it, words that came so easy, meant so much, and yet, were often uttered too readily to have their intended effect.

He blinked, but one corner of his mouth lifted dryly as he looked back down, seeming to be in search of something in particular amid the pages. "Can't imagine whatever it is you're talking about." He shook his head, the silver ornament in his hair jingling softly.

"You worry, don't you?"

Jack's head came back up as Kate stepped closer. This time the smile came easier, but he was still reluctant to meet her eyes. "That' what captain's do, darling. Although," he added, slipping a sideways glance. "The task is not nearly demanding as when he's a crew that is willing to listen."

The jibe appeased Kate, somewhat. Jack was only irritated, his dignity slightly ruffled by her challenging him. He would make her suffer a little more, just to make his point, but he had already forgiven her.

She looked around the room, wincing at the sounds of the men in the foyer, randomly shooting into the air in celebration. The commotion drew Jack's attention and he caught the look on Kate's face.

"What?"

She shrugged, shaking her head. "Nothing, it's just…" Her words faded. Seeing his barely patient stare, she realized that a clearer explanation was going to have to be forthcoming. "I'm not accustomed to just taking people's things."

"Pirate!"

He offered the word as a single solution. Seeing it didn't work, he chuckled softly, and resumed his searching the book. "Pirates, darling; it's what we do."

Kate was struck by the sharp contrast Jack cut in the candlelight, wild and barbaric, outlandish and outrageous, standing in the midst of equally outrageous wealth and propriety. The light played amongst the ornaments in his hair as his head moved with the turning of the pages. Bristling with weapons, with one foot crossed over the other, he appeared as comfortable as if it were the very home in which he had grown up.

"I know it's what you do, but it doesn't make it right," she said, knowing her point would make little difference. It still made her feel better by saying it; at least she had filed some sort of an objection.

"Right isn't part of the question." Balancing the book in one hand, he gestured toward the room and the house beyond. "Besides, where is everyone, eh? If they don't care enough to protect it, then it's our duty to take it."

"Odd logic," she murmured, trying to grasp his point.

"Ah!" he exclaimed brightly, poking a finger at the page. "Listen to this:

_Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread  
In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.  
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be  
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring'st with thee  
A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise ; and though  
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know  
By this these angels from an evil sprite ;  
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.  
Licence my roving hands, and let them go  
Before, behind, between, above, below."  
_

His graveled voice softened to a velvety orator's tone, the room absorbing the words.

"Very romantic," she commented, peering over his shoulder. "How did you ever come to know that bit?"

Jack gave one of those smiles that could light up a room even as dim as the one they were in. "Remember I told you about living in the country as a boy? When we were young—just boys—the schoolmaster insisted on reading us these God-awful passages! Mind-numbingly boring, they were! One day, one of us committed the ultimate sin to his superiority, and fell asleep. As punishment, we were forbidden to go outside to play; we had to stay in… and _read_."

"A sure death sentence to every lad." Kate hid a smile, remembering the rambunctious spirits of her brothers. Truth be told, she was obligated to include herself in that picture. It was an even more interesting picture trying to imagine Jack at that age.

Jack nodded, silently agreeing with her. "I couldn't believe me luck when I picked up Donne! For a lad of eleven, he gave me hope."

"Always the charmed life."

Walnut eyes came up to meet hers with a liquid look, dark and intent. "So it would seem."

A loud crash upstairs broke them apart. Jack shook his head in dismay as he straightened. "Not going to be much left at this rate," he sighed.

"Has there been any sign of anyone around here?"

"Nay," he answered disinterestedly. "According to Gibbs, there was no one."

"No one?" she echoed. "Anywhere? Doesn't that seem a bit odd?"

Jack glanced around, considering. "I suppose. C'mon, luv!" Tucking the book under one arm, he arced the other around Kate's shoulders. "Let's go see what else there is to be had."

Jack took the two of them up the long staircase, followed closely by her three impromptu bodyguards, artfully dodging as a loose chair tumbled down, followed by two more men, barely visible behind the plunder piled in their arms as they trundled down the steps. As they made their way around the gallery, Kate could see into some of the rooms and the aftermath of the sacking. Jack seemed to have a destination in mind as he steered her to a grand pair of satin and brass-studded doors. He intercepted two of his men as they passed, unapologetically snatching away the candelabras that they carried. Pushing the doors open with his foot, Jack swept a mannerly bow, handing her a light.

"M'lady."

As Kate crossed the threshold, she could hear Jack conferring with her three guards. "Do any of you understand the meaning of the words, 'Do not disturb?'" There was a hasty, mumbling of acknowledgment. "Then see to it."

Bearing more lights, Jack quickly pressed past and disappeared ahead. Kate held the candelabra high overhead as she made her way in. The light barely reached the margins of the room. Not vast, but certainly spacious, it was a sitting room, with a chaise poised in front of French doors. The gleam of highly polished, wood floors peeked out from between heavy Turkish rugs, amid richly carved and gilded furniture, and deep upholsteries.

Kate occasionally caught a glimpse of Jack's progress through the adjoining rooms, by the light of ghostly reflections bobbing of on the wall, or the orange glow around a cracked door, exclamations of delighted discovery echoing back. She followed the sounds into the next room.

The term "boudoir" definitely applied there, with lace and other femininity frothing from every surface that could possibly support it, accompanied by the heady scent of perfume and flowers. One of the candelabras that Jack had been carrying, sat on an oval table in the middle of the room, illuminating the curve-backed chairs, delicately creweled, porcelain-shaded lamps, tapestries of Venus-like women in verdant, edenesque settings, and a vast poster bed, billowing with satin spreads and pillows, hastily turned back. These were definitely people of substance. Kate had grown up in the most predominant family in the region, but her home had been nothing compared to this.

On the shadowy far side of the bedroom was another imposing door, with an equally imposing lock. She had known of husbands and wives who cohabited, living in the same house, but in separate worlds, coming together only for the purposes of producing the obligatory heirs. A natural byproduct of arranged marriages, she supposed, but it still left her feeling empty, the idea foreign.

Amid the din of the pirates in the hallway, she followed the familiar clatter of Jack's oddments and flotsam, pausing to curiously peek in what proved to be a lady's dressing room. Some of the chiffonier and armoire drawers stood open, with laces and delicates foaming out.

As expected, the next room was a man's bedroom, the wall lines with paintings of hunt scenes and memorialized horses, faintly smelling of cigar smoke and brandy. The room boasted another massive four-posted bed, but this one was mussed. Someone had been using it. There was no way to know how long ago, but it would appear that the chambermaid hadn't yet attended it. Not as opulent as the one before, the room still spoke of privilege and substance.

The room was empty, Jack had already moved on in his explorations. Poking about, Kate paused as something struck her as odd: everything was still in place—untouched, as if they had hastily left... but where?

"Where were you?"

Startled, Kate jumped, whirling around. "Don't sneak up on me like that!

"No sneaking about it, darling." Jack's eyes rolled suspiciously. "A might bit edgy, are we?"

Kate looked uneasily around at the cavernous room and its shadow obscured corners, chairs and footstools like animals, ready to spring.

"There's something about this place that's making me jumpy." She shook off the eerie sensations, regaining her composure. "How is it that these rooms haven't been ransacked, like the rest of the house?"

Jack began to reply, but thought better of it. Instead, he twisted his jaw sideways, touching the tip of his tongue thoughtfully to his lip. "Do the words 'captain's orders' have any significance to you?"

There it was: another barb. Chastened, she would probably have to endure another jibe or two, a bit of another tongue lashing, and then it would be out of his system.

The light Jack had been carrying was gone. Now, he was holding his hands behind his back, rocking on his toes, the light catching a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"Look what I found!"

Giving his eyebrows a salacious waggle, he held up a corset. At least, Kate suspected it was, so heavily encrusted in lace and ribbons.

"What are you going to do with that?" she asked warily.

His smile widened, a gold and ivory display meant to charm. "I mean to take it off—right after _you_ put it on."

"You mean, here?" she asked, stiffening.

Crestfallen, Jack lowered the garment. "Certainly, why not? You don't like it?"

"No! I mean, yes, it's lovely, but…" Glancing nervously around, she stammered, caught a bit off guard. "It just seems like, maybe we could more comfortable on the _Pearl_."

"Darling," he began, slinking closer. "There is a bed in there that is nearly as large as the _Pearl's_ entire sleeping quarters, with a down-filled mattress and pillows, and white sheets that are as soft as that lovely bit of skin just behind your knees." He gave her a penetrating look, his voice falling to a velvet purr. "I intend to take you in there, toss you into the middle of that unending expanse of luxuriant spaciousness, and ravage you as you have never been ravaged."

The images he painted caused the very knees he spoke to become slightly weak. "Well," she said faintly, after swallowing hard. "How could a girl ever deny an offer like that?"

"I thought you'd see the logic in me thinking," he said, smugly. "Take this; there is a lady's dressing room, just in there." His hand rose to her neck, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. "You go get ready; I'll be waiting." The huskiness in his voice melted any lingering reservations that she might have been harboring.

He hesitated, undecided, then finally surrendered, and kissed her, luxuriously exploring her mouth, sighing complacently as he finished.

"Oh." he murmured. "Be sure to leave the sword and pistol behind." His hand was still warm at her neck. "I'm expecting a lady who is very firm on her position on weapons in bed—well, truth be told, she has several positions in bed—but weapons are categorically not allowed. Besides, I've always made it a rule not to bed women who are as well-armed as meself."

"Well, as long as we're going to be here a while," she began slowly, stepping away. "I have something for you." She held up the fruits of her own poking about: a men's nightshirt. Silk and butter-soft, its billowing sleeves were weighted with absurd layers of lace at the cuffs, with equal amounts of lace at the neck, and satin-corded tassels at the ties.

Jack recoiled as if she had just shown him a three-headed kitten, his upper lip curling in disgust. "What the bloody hell is that?"

"What do you think it is?"

"I've never worn anything before," he argued, retreating as she advanced.

"Neither have I," she argued simply, undaunted as she pressed toward him.

"Looks like something some bloody fop would wear."

Kate nodded agreeably. "Probably."

Jack's back came up against the door as he groped for excuses. "I always preferred to think you preferred me natural assets... natural."

"I could say the same thing."

His eyes darted in frantic uncertainly, first one way, and then another, trying to avoid her and the shirt. Finally slumping, he surrendered. "No getting around it, eh?"

Pinning him against the door with her hips, she kissed him, draping the garment over his arm as she sucked gently on his lower lip.

He blew a slow, resigned sigh. "It would appear we both have something to gain."

**The** lady's dressing room was as well appointed as the rest of the house. Lighting the wall sconces with one of the tapers, Kate removed the baldric and pistol, and began the unfamiliar, and long-dormant process, of making herself feminine. Exploring the drawers and closets, she ferreted out what she needed to complete her ensemble, valiantly trying to overlook the plaguing guilt that tore her. Amid the finery and delicates, she felt natty and worn. She still wore the clothing that Thomas had given her, which had been an improvement from those that Jack had initially procured; she never had found out where those scratches on his face had come from. But still, compared to the quality of what hung in the closets and spilled from the drawers, she barely felt qualified for skullerymaid.

Picking through the drawers, her fingers snagged the finely woven fabrics. She looked down at her hands, and saw how roughened they had become. Sailing was no life of glory. Not as badly as Jack's, or the rest of the crew, her cuticles and the edges of her fingers were becoming stained by the ubiquitous tar. The substance was the life of the ship, virtually holding it together, and consequently kept it afloat; it was impossible to touch any surface without feeling some level of its stickiness. Nothing but time would remove the stain, but she could do something about her skin. Rifling further, she found several silver-lidded porcelain jars of creams, richly scented in combinations of roses, jasmine, lavender, lilac, sandalwood, myrrh, lemon verbena, and other exotics, and basked in the luxuriant feel of smoothing it all over.

A silk chemise was draped across the back of a chair, carelessly tossed. It had probably been intended to be of the customary knee-length, or even longer, as some women preferred, but the ribboned hem barely fell to Kate's mid-thigh. A pair of petal-pink silk stockings matched the corset perfectly, but a bit short as well. Like the chemise, the corset was somewhat small, and didn't quite come down as far over her hips as would have been deemed proper, nor did it cover her bosom as fully, as would have been required, but she had every confidence that Jack wouldn't object. The corset still smelled slightly of the previous wearer, mostly of perfume, but of a very expensive variety. The garment was difficult to wedge into, and even though it laced in the front, it was still a bit of a struggle to manage since she couldn't bend sufficiently to reach the ties. A pair of damask slippers she found in a corner, lavishly swirled with embroidered flowers, were small as well, but she donned them anyway.

Her hair took longer than she had hoped, but she had been determined to manage it into something other than the "maddening tangle", as Jack always referred to it. Several times, she had made the comment to him about "glass houses" and "stones", but he failed to see her point. At last, she surrendered to the tousled bramble, and sufficed with tying it back a pink ribbon.

Catching a glimpse from the corner of her eye, Kate stopped to take a look in the mirror. Deeply carved with silver-capped feet, blank-eyed cherubs and doves watched from their perch at the top of the frame; she couldn't help but feel them looking, either as spies or guards, accusing or appraising.

Blue-green eyes stared back from the beveled glass, startled to see the stranger standing there. Jack had mounted a mirror on the bulkhead, but it only reached as far as the base of her neck. The last time she had seen herself in a full-length mirror had been when she worked for Cornelia Fortanhill, the sempstress in London. The math flitted through her head; well over a year and a half ago. Then, she had looked drawn and haggard, with dark circles under her eyes and hollowed cheeks. Five years of not eating, partly due to lack of interest, and partly due to lack of food, and five years of sleeplessness had taken its toll. Each day had been a monotony and every night, Hell.

Tipping her head, Kate caught a slightly different angle. Now, the circles were gone, and her eyes held at least a hint of life, although her face and neck still didn't show the soft roundness of years ago. But that had been years ago, in another time, at another age, and no doubt, never to return. In a moment of self-consciousness, she turned and rummaged further, finally locating a porcelain box of rice powder, and dusted her neck and cleavage in a cloud of jasmine and verbena. A porcelain pot of lip rouge sat next to it, and she dabbed on a bit, cautious of how much Jack might consider as too much.

Jack signified a turning point, the past necessarily left behind on the _Melody_, a new one beginning as she lay on the deck of the _Black Pearl_. Had it not been for him, she wouldn't be standing there… she wouldn't be anywhere. She had jumped from the _Melody_ that day with a purpose. He made her feel fresh, with a new life—and above all else—needed.

During the years of loneliness, she had forgotten the joy of having someone, to reach out in the night, and find someone there, warm, solid and reassuring, to know that there was someone who would notice, if she rose in the night, or cared if she came back, or, for that matter, cared at all. Of course, there was the sheer pleasure of having someone with which to make love. She never fully realized how severely the carnal aspects of her life would be missed, until they were gone. But, if a choice had to be made, she would choose the person over the passion. Even if she could never lie with Jack again, his company and friendship was invaluable; it was impossible to imagine life without him.

Twisting slightly, she attempted to examine herself with an impartial eye.

Even in the low light of the candles, her skin was no longer its creamy pale of years past. Any patch that was exposed to the sun had browned, not to Jack's deep bronze, but tanned, nonetheless, the crown and ends of her hair sun-bleached to a color almost identical to her skin.

Her hand trailed slowly from her collarbone, down the arch of her ribs, ending at the curve of her waist. She was so thin, so much more than when she had been with Brian. He had always commented on her waist, so small it appeared she would break in two. A tall man, with large hands, his fingers would meet around her middle. If only he could see her now. The slightness at her waist only exaggerated her shoulders, making them appear much wider, emphasizing the roundness of her hips, her bottom appearing much fuller. Brian had always admired her rear, claiming it provided a comfortable grip when he bedded her.

She touched the lace wrapping that concealed the brand at her wrist, encircling the fine bones with her fingers; they had never touched that easily before. And yet, she felt better than she had felt for years. Physically and mentally, she was in a better state than she had been the day she had arrived to the _Black_ _Pearl_. Since then, she had eaten regularly, and willingly, and slept… most nights.

Her rope necklace was a sharp contrast to the silk and satin. Time had probably tightened the knot to the point of the ends being nearly melded together, but that was of little significance. Under no circumstances would she ever remove it. Being the only gift Jack had ever given her she wasn't about to take it off.

All things considered, in spite of the discomfort of invading someone's home, she felt more glamorous and pampered than she had ever been in her life. Never before, had there been the means, nor the circumstance, to indulge in such luxuries. Looking in the mirror, she saw someone that was indeed alluring, and seductive. The thought of Jack in the next room waiting for her, made her breath quicken and her blood rush lower.

She could have it all—if she wanted. One word, and Jack would have every thread and shard of it on the _Black Pearl_. He wanted her to have anything she wanted; he had said as much more than once. If she were honest, it was all lovely, and not just a little fun, to play pretend. But, if she were honest, all that wasn't what she wanted.

What she wanted was in the next room, humming nonsensical tunes amid the rustle and clatter of whatever it was he was doing.

Taking a final look in the mirror, she straightened the ribbon in her hair, gave the corset a tug, slipped on the silk wrapper, and went out to meet him.


	6. Chapter 6: Bedroom Piracy

**Chapter Six: Bedroom Piracy**

**The** slippers proved to be slick contrivances, with a determination to be free of both Kate and her feet. Being careful not to trip, her steps were muffled in the deep-pile rugs, and she was well into the room, before Jack realized she was there.

When Jack turned to face her, he carried his same casual air, but his bare toes squirmed uncomfortably in the Turkish rug. There was a fleeting, direct look, as he dared her to say anything untoward. Once satisfied that she wasn't going to, the lace-frothed sleeves drug at his elbows as he spread his arms, proudly displaying both himself and the room.

"What do you think?"

The bedroom had gone through a dramatic change since Kate had left. A deserted cavern before, it was now aglow, with candelabras and candles tucked onto every surface that could possibly support them, casting the room in gold and amber, the air heady with scented beeswax, a sharp contrast to the heavy smell of the _Pearl's_ tallow candles and oil lamps.

The bedclothes had been turned back, with a lustrous mountain of satin and velvet pillows arranged with more care than that of the most skilled chambermaid. A parade of painted doves and cherubs played hide and seek along the walls, from behind the furnishings, and in and out of the shadowed corners. Carved and gilded, more cherubs and mythological beings peered down in frozen-faced interest from picture frames and furniture.

Jack stood in the middle of the room next to a marble-topped pedestal table, glowing with his own inner light. The nightshirt he wore was enormous, hanging precariously from one shoulder, the tattoo over his heart sharp against skin rarely touched by the sun. The neck opening plunged to nearly his navel, the hemline brushing just above ankles. It was Kate's first time, to seem him wear anything other than his own shirt, and the transformation was startling. Against his burnished tan, and sable hair, the nightshirt was eye-stabbingly white.

Awed by both the room and his efforts, Kate stammered. "It's stunning."

Dropping his arms, Jack's eyes settled on her. Luridly admiring, his gaze slowly took her in, the candlelight flashing off his hair oddments. Nervous from a sudden wave of self-consciousness, she began to fidget.

"I think the lady of the house was considerably smaller than me," Kate began, tentatively passing a hand along her side. Extending one leg, the wrapper fell back to display the petal pink silk stockings, gartered above the knees with tiny green velvet cords. "These barely are long enough, and the corset is so small, it almost doesn't…"

In one feline move, Jack was before her, pressing a finger lightly to her lips. "Shh!" he hissed softly. "Not another word."

He took his time drinking her in, from top to bottom, and back up, taking in every detail, his eyes glittering dark and liquid, as a lop-sided smile grew. He shook his head, his mouth moving wordlessly.

"You're stunning." The words squeezed out in a hoarse whisper. "To see you in something so fine..."

"I've never had anything like this."

His smile faltered, and then fell. "You mean, Brian never got you…?"

"No," she sighed, without regret. "There was never enough money for anything so frivolous. I mean, don't misunderstand, if I had wanted something like this, he would have gotten it for me, regardless of what it would have taken. But it wasn't important to me, that's all."

"You tell me what you want, darling." His voice had become firmer, though still uncharacteristically soft. He shifted his attention pointedly at her legs. "And just for the record, no pair of silk stockings would be worth changing those lovely, long legs."

His gaze lingered at her knees then drifted to her waist. Jack was a master at hiding his thoughts, wearing a mask that rendered him positively inscrutable, at times. But he wasn't hiding anything when he looked up, his eyes following the mounds of her breasts.

"I think she must have added all this lace, to make her look…bigger."

"No worries, luv." The light caught the gold and ivory of his smile. His attention hadn't wavered, but his eyes had grown. "If there were any more of you, me heart wouldn't be able to bear it."

He drew her close, and kissed her, the dangles of his beard pattering on her throat. Her mouth opened under his, the tip of his tongue delicately tracing the curve of her lip then probed deeper. He slid a hand down the curve of her hips, and cupped her bottom, bringing her more firmly against him. Groaning, he reluctantly pulled away, tickling her lips with his mustache. Stealing a last kiss, he swore softly under his breath as he led her to the table.

Jack maintained all the dignity he could manage, walking with the same confident swagger, as if he were still wearing his faded coat and threadbare shirt. As he passed before the candles, his body was an amorphous shadow under the silk of the shirt, at times a dark silhouette, shifting with the movement of his hips. It pulled taut across his shoulders, the opulent cuffs dragging, as he reached across the table, the tattoo on his shoulder ghosting through the semi-sheer fabric. Kate buried the urge to giggle. He was so sincere; she didn't dare give in to the urge to laugh at the ludicrous shirt. No man could possibly look dignified in something that preposterously laden, the cords of his hair writhing like snakes through a jungle of lace.

"I found a very lovely Madeira downstairs." He held up a crystal, footed decanter in exhibition. With a flourish, he filled two heavily etched crystal goblets, the liquid purling into the glass, clear reds sparking bright amidst the deep burgundy. He handed her one, the glass feeling fragile enough to shatter, just from the pressure of her fingers.

His eyes took on an avid sheen as over the rim of the crystal as he raised it in a toast. "Here's to finding your treasures, and the wisdom to treasure them."

The goblets rang clear as they touched. Mellow and spicy, the wine filled her head with a perfume all its own. Jack rolled it in his mouth for a moment, considering.

"Portuguese, I'd wager, judging by the oakiness." Taking another sip, he broke into a slightly embarrassed smile, his lashes fanning dark across his cheeks as he dropped his eyes. "I want you so bad, I'm fit to burst."

From among the deep folds of his shirt, there was one protruding shape that was indeed not a little obvious. He did want her… and badly. She chuckled softly, her cheeks heating as if she were a new bride.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, luv. It's me own bloody damned fault. I can't resist you." He heaved a resigned sigh. "I had this all planned."

With two fingers, he delicately took the goblet from her hand, and set down both glasses. With the same two fingers, he tugged open the robe's sash, heedlessly allowing it to fall to the floor. The garment fell open, and slipped his hands inside, their heat radiating through the layers as he curved them over her hips and waist.

"I promised meself I would wait." His voice fell to a throaty rasp. "T'would seem I failed to plan for just how lovely you'd be."

He kissed her, gently at first, shaking with the effort of restraint, but holding the promise of more. Shuddering, he surrendered his personal battle. He took her then, fierce, raking with his teeth, diving and searching with his tongue. The hard curves of his back felt foreign under the silk, the Madiera on his lips mingling with his own male mustiness. Kate was slave to her own needs, the rush of it rendering her moist and full.

With a feral grace, he bore her back to the bed. Dropping on one knee beside her, he bent then straightened, his face brightening with a sudden thought.

"A moment," he murmured.

Kate stretched luxuriously in the billows of down, silk and fine linen, wriggling—as best the restricting corset would allow—into the softness. Jack returned within seconds. Kneeling over her, brandishing his boot dagger, he suddenly became the pirate she knew him to be: dark and wild, a smile filled with golden devilment, and a glint in his eye that threatened ravishment.

"What are you going to do with that?" she asked, jerking back at the sight of the knife.

Inching forward, his brows waggled in delight. "I've always wanted to do this with you. Hold still," he said as his fingers slipped under the top edge of the corset, deep into the cleft of her breasts.

"Please don't, Jack."

Kate said it unwittingly; realizing only then that her heart was pounding not from anticipation or allure, but fear—cold, rocks-in-the-pit-of-her-stomach fear. Swallowing, the scars that webbed her abdomen writhing, she closed her eyes, battling the swirling, long-buried images of other men holding knives, fogged but clear enough to haunt.

Jack started to object, but then saw her anguish. Slumping, he gave the dagger a pitch over his shoulder, clunking hollowly somewhere in the plushness of the rugs. He sat back on his heels, his face clouding, as he realized that she quivered not for him, but from him.

"Jesus, Kitty," he said in a tight whisper. He swallowed hard, choking back his own anguish. "You know I'd never hurt you."

It tugged at her, to think that she had made him believe that she was afraid of him, specifically. Regaining her composure, and with a tremulous smile, Kate curved an arm around his neck. "I know that," she chided, and pulled him to her.

Bracing his weight on his elbows, he settled his hips comfortably between her knees, his hair falling in a corded curtain, the heavy ornament swinging in cool arcs on her shoulder. It was painful to see the remorse that pinched the corners of his eyes, and clouded their depths. She traced the deep furrows of his brow and temple, until they softened, his fingers making their own journey over her features.

"There's never been a single moment that I have ever been afraid of you."

She hoped the conviction in her voice was convincing. It was, her reward coming as a glimmer of a smile that softened his eyes, fading quickly as he feigned a wounded pout.

"Not exactly the words a fearsome pirate yearns to hear."

"Don't know any fearsome pirates," she began, tracing small circles on the tender skin just behind his ear, "only one gentle one."

She kissed him, offering her forgiveness, and asking his. Tentative at first, Jack's confidence and fervor returned, along with the devilish glint.

"Very well, then. If m'lady is to insist upon slow, then slow she shall have." He bent his head to tickle his mustache across the mounds of her breasts. "I'll have you begging by the time I'm finished."

Slow was what he promised, and slow was what he would be: excitingly, inexorably, excruciatingly slow. Once she was arranged to his discriminating satisfaction amidst the piles of satin and velvet pillows, he settled to his work, and began to methodically peel away her layers, as if she were a rosebud waiting to bloom.

And bloom she did under his touch, a blossoming of desire that welled and spread to every niche of her being as he applied every tool at his disposal with a master's skill: hands and fingers, mouth and tongue, the cords and trinkets of his hair, were all eloquently applied, even the silkiness of the shirt and the roughened softness of the lace.

He knew her well, knew each and every one of the special places that made her pulse quicken as he touched and caressed, made her breath catch in anticipation as he neared the next. She gave herself to him, completely defenseless. Gentle, attentive lover that he was, he would never hurt her. But in that was her peril: he knew her too well, and now used that knowledge to tease and taunt, until she begged.

"Ah-ah, darling!" he said, resisting her scrabbling hands that sought to pull him to her. "I pledged slow—and we've barely touched the night."

Two fingers delicately plucked the garters free, then torturously peeled away each stocking, lips and fingers languidly following the curve of calf and ankle. It was his teeth that undid the corset's bow, and then gently tugged loose the strings, his breath radiating hot through the fabric, in a tantalizing creep.

Rising to his knees, he pulled the corset away, freeing her to arc upward, attempting to coax him to her. In his attempts to resist, she made a lucky grasp of a hard length amidst the silk.

"Ohh," she cooed, and began deftly stroking. "How are you ever managing to resist?"

"Resolve and determination, luv," he murmured, gently wresting away from her grasp. "Do not dismiss the merits of age. If it were twenty years ago, we'd be finished—well, me, at any rate—and at the table drinking wine. Now," he said, as if calling matters back to order. "We've much yet to do."

With a soft chuckle against her neck, he ducked his head to the ribbon at the neck of the chemise. Taking it in his teeth, he pulled it loose, and then bent to her now free breasts, delicately tickling each nipple with his mustache, so they rose, dark and pink. He tended each one, thoroughly. She moaned softly as he drew away, a muted request that he linger there longer, but he was a man with a purpose, a charted course that needed to be sailed.

Stealthy hands rucked up the hem of the chemise, the fabric gliding in waves up her legs. He paused to pay particular attention to the tender skin at the back of her knees; the beads in his beard and hair dragging deliciously cool behind the heat of his hands and mouth. Slowly, he traced her curves upward, until he could pull the garment clear, and toss it over his shoulder.

His lips marked a blazing trail, spreading her legs to the cool of the night air. She shivered, then surrendered to the demanding warmth of his mouth. He hummed appreciatively at the extent of her arousal; but offered only teasing flicks of fingers and tongue.

The coarse and soft of his hair tickled the skin of the inside of her legs, trailing like extra fingers. His rings were cool at her hips as he cupped her. A shudder that grew, in tumbling waves to a roiling finish, left her gasping. Breathless, she raised up to see a red-scarfed head resting on her thigh, caressing and kissing the tender inside of her leg as he waited for her to recover.

"Jack, come here."

Bottomless brown eyes peeked up over the damp, auburn curls as she groped for him. She felt a smile against her skin, but he didn't answer, only settled more determinedly to his task.

When Kate couldn't breathe enough to beg, reduced to muted flailing, he rose over her, but only to prod and tease. Finally succumbing to her demands and his own needs, he braced her hips, and slid home. Whimpering anxiously, she writhed, begging him deeper.

"Ah-ah." he warned softly. "Don't move."

Through clenched teeth, she swore. "Jack, please!"

With a sly smile, and a flex of his hips, he withdrew just enough to deny what she sought, but not so much as to break their joining.

"Damn it!" She clutched at him, gaining only ineffective snatches of nightshirt.

He arched his back slightly, resisting her attempts to pull him closer. "Lie still." The command came wrapped in velvet, and she yielded, eyes sparking with both fury and need. "Ahh," he sighed in mocking approval, as he settled back. "There's a good girl. Now…"

Frowning in concentration, he closed his eyes as he set his own rhythm. Pausing now and again to kiss her, he moved at her silent urging, and was answered almost instantly by the pulsing of her release. Restraint dissolving, he drove harder, paying the price for his taunts. She held him, absorbing his thrusts, until he shuddered, breathless, with a warm rush as he spilled himself.

In the end, Jack fell limp, a warm, heavy weight on Kate's chest, his breath a rasp in her ear. Still joined, she could feel the throb of his heart, resonating in slow, dull thuds through her flesh, echoing in her own heart.

Once his strength congealed, he raised to lightly plant a kiss on the slope of each breast. With a reluctant sigh, he rolled away, sprawling across the tumbled bedclothes.

"What I wouldn't give, to have a bed such as this on the i_Pearl/i_!" He spoke to the cherubs on the ceiling then turned his head toward her. "Dangerous thing, I'd never be able to leave you; the crew would never see the likes of me face again."

Kate came up on her side, and brushed back a braid from his sweat-dampened cheek. "Best keep you uncomfortable, for your own sake."

He fell quiet for a time, staring overhead. "The cabin!" he finally declared, in an inspiration.

"What?"

His eyes bulged with the fervor of his plan, his hands dancing in the air explanation. "We could move the table, and put it right in the middle of the cabin!" Pushing up on one elbow, his words came faster. "Under the skylight, we'd have all sorts of light, and with the windows open, it would be just as if we were outside, sailing on our own bed across the seas together…" His enthusiasm faded, his face falling at her dubious look. "What?"

"Are you listening to yourself?"

"Of course," he huffed, indignant. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Aren't you getting a bit caught up in your own machinations?"

Falling back, he laughed quietly. "No, just my need for you, luv." Hoisting up, he squirmed back into the pillows. "C'mon, darling, I've something I want you to hear."

"**Mmm,** that's lovely. Rather a tragic love, isn't it?"

Jack made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. "Bloody man doesn't know when he's got a good thing! Always goes mucking about, thinking there's something better over somewheres else."

Propped on his elbows, Jack laid on his stomach, his bare legs kicking aimlessly in the air, reading from a gilded and leather book spread across Kate's thighs. The book bore the unlikely title of _The History and Remarkable Life Of the truly Honourable Col. Jacque, commonly call'd Col. Jack, who was Born a Gentleman, put 'Prentice to a Pick-Pocket, was Six and Twenty Years a Thief, and then Kidnapp'd to Virginia, Came back a Merchant; was Five times married to Four Whores; went into the Wars, behav'd bravely, got Preferment, was made Colonel of a Regiment, came over, and fled with the Chevalier, is still abroad compleating a Life of Wonders, and resolves to dye a General._

The bedding in a wild scramble, Kate reclined against the massive headboard, nestled in amid a nest of pillows, idly twining and untwining her fingers in his hair.

Jack looked up from the pages, dark and intent. "A man needs to know when he's got the best."

Kate thoughtfully toyed with end of one of his braids, lost momentarily in the coffee-colored gaze. "A woman needs to know the same thing—and to know that the man knows… and that she knows."

"Careful, darling." He lifted a cautionary finger as a wry smile curved his lips. The nightshirt pulled taut against the lean squareness of his shoulders as he shifted. "You're beginning to sound like me," he said as he returned his attention to the book.

"Are you sure that book wasn't written about you?" The parallels and similarities were almost too much to be believed as purely coincidental.

Jack held up the title page as proof. "Defoe, written in 1722; I was but a boy." He idly went back to flipping through the pages. "The man was an inordinate fool."

"Defoe?"

"No." He slid a perturbed look from the corner of his eye. "This captain fellow. I have me reservations that he should have even been bearing such a title," he added, with mild disdain.

"So, you've read this before."

"Aye, more than I care to count," he said with quiet confidence, and settled back to read.

"Take off your scarf."

The impulsiveness of her request startled them both. Jack blinked, puzzled. "I'll look like a bloody wild man," he warned, but ducked his head and untied it, nonetheless.

Loosed from its omnipresent binding, Jack's hair sprang free, blooming in a sable cascade about his shoulders. At Kate's urging, and not a small amount of petulant huffing, he finally succumbed to the undoing of the heavy braid that the back. He balked even more staunchly when she went to untie the tail of hair that anchored the long bone, of the many smaller braids scattered about, but finally surrendered, grumbling under his breath something barely intelligible about "stubborn, bloody women". At first, she tried combing it out with her fingers, but almost instantly realized the futility. Surrendering, she retrieved a brush from the dressing room. Settling Jack back between her outstretched legs, she set to her task of brushing out his hair.

At first, it was a snarling, ebony mane, a contradictory mixture of the coarseness of the cords, and the surprisingly silky fineness of the remainder. As Kate drew the brush in long sweeping strokes, the bristles' rasp was a quiet backdrop to Jack's soliloquy. With persistence, it fell into glossy snakes, coiling around her fingers into natural cords. While Jack read, his hand continuously ran the length of her leg, fingers lightly tracing the curve of calf and thigh, lingering at the softness at the back of her knee. He paused often, when either one of them commented on a passage, or to sip from the goblet they shared.

"Yours is nearly as heavy and wild as mine," she observed at one such stop.

Jack snorted quietly. "You should see it short." He took another drink, smacking his lips softly. "I looked like I had a bloody black helmet on me head."

"When did you ever wear it short?" Kate's eyes were intent on her task, as she listened.

Jack blew a long exhale, as if the recollection was an effort, and leaned back further, to nestle his head comfortably between her breasts.

"For a long time, me mother couldn't wait for it to grow enough, to finally be able to tie it back; couldn't find me face under it all. All the old wives said I would go cross-eyed from trying to see 'round it."

Kate smiled at the visions of a young, dark-headed boy, screwing his face and squirming in the chair, as his mother wrestled to contain the heavy mop.

It was customary for men who regularly wore wigs to keep their hair clipped short, but a vast majority of the men she had encountered in her life had worn it long, simply tying it back. It was difficult—nearly impossible—to imagine Jack with anything different.

"So, if you let it grow as a boy, then when was it short?"

His mouth compressed into a grim line as he pensively ran his finger along the raised letter on his wrist. He might have been looking at the brand, but he was seeing far past it.

"In the spirit of protecting me against vermin—the _few_ days I was imprisoned—Lord Beckett saw fit to cut it off." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "They weren't gentle about it; they took a knife, and just lopped it off, longer here, shorter there, bleeding in between. I looked like a wretched sheep right after a shearing."

Kate involuntarily gasped. Jack ventured a brief glance up at her, but then quickly dropped away. The hairbrush went still in her hand, hovering motionlessly over his head as she watched him struggle with the embarrassment and degradation that she saw in that one glimpse.

Swallowing hard, he fell quiet, drifting off to another place and another time. He jerked and straightened, shaking it off, attempting a smile, as if it had all been dismissed.

"That was over thirteen years ago," he said softly, shaking his head in disbelief. "How, the bloody hell, did that suddenly become so long ago?"

"Time flies when you're having fun," she mused, toying with a strand.

Twisting, he looked up, intently studying her face. "Then it's been all but a matter of seconds, since we pulled you from the water." His graveled voice fell to sanded velvet.

He reached an arm and brought her mouth down to meet his, and kissed her, taking the time to explore every crevice of her mouth. His fervor gradually grew, becoming more demanding, his teeth raking against the tender flesh. Catching himself, he reluctantly drew back, ending with a gentle jousting of tongues.

"God, you taste good! C'mon, turnabout's fair play. Give me that brush, and let's see if there are any miracles left in this ol' world."

The sounds of the house receded; the earlier raucousness had faded, now only punctuated with an occasional thud or crash. The voices and pounding footsteps that had thundered, running to and fro past the bedroom, had gradually diminished. Revelry could be heard from outside, the sounds of semi-drunken laughter and music carried in through the balcony doors on the night's breeze.

Only a few candles remained burning around the bed, the rest having guttered out, leaving Kate and Jack in a cozy island of light amidst a sea of dark.

Not surprisingly, at first Kate's hair rebelled, but finally succumbed to Jack's insistent fingers, and allowed to be brushed out into heavy, mahogany coils. Wedged between his legs, Kate sat propped against his chest, resuming where Jack had left off in the many adventures of the wayward Colonel Jacque, aka Captain Jack. Each of them was well aware of the other's movements, both waiting for the moment, when a certain touch or look would signal more.

Having emptied the glass, Jack rolled to reach for the decanter sitting on the floor next to the bed, and came back up to find Kate waiting with just such a look.

"Take off your shirt." It seemed to be a night for her to make impulsive requests. Instead of the objections to her first, this one was met with a gleam in his eyes, and a crooked grin.

Kate helped Jack wriggle out of the volumes of fabric, pulling it off over his head, allowing it to slip heedlessly to the floor. He sat back, and she saw him in his full glory bathed in molten gold, a bronze and ivory warrior, lithe and graceful, barbarously dark, his hair snaking about his shoulders. Scarred and scripted, he was the black-hearted pirate he had always claimed to be, prepared to pillage and plunder anything—or anyone—that happened in his path. Places on his body, pure and unmarked, free of tattoos or scars, or touch of the sun that offered brief glimpses of what he had once been, and might still have been, if he had been spared the ravages of time and peril.

But then, time wasn't characteristically kind to anyone—herself included.

A heated flush of arousal spiraled from her heart, downward. That same feeling was being mirrored back in his gaze; he was seeing her in the same light, the effect of it showing stiff against his stomach

"Forgotten what I look like?" He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Did I just grow two heads?"

Indulging in her thoughts a bit longer, Kate blinked. "What?"

"You were looking at me as if you'd never seen me before. Have I changed that much in the past few hours, or have you gone feeble?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just—" Her words faded as she looked at him anew, the light sharp on his profile as he tipped his head. "Well, yes, actually, maybe I am seeing you for the first time," she murmured as her hand slipped up his shoulder, her fingers combing up into his hair.

One corner of his mouth tucked up. "Told you I'd look like a wild man."

"Not all bad," she said, lost in thoughtful admiration. Her palm traced the flat of his chest and taut abdomen, trailing lower. "Mmm," she hummed, in quiet delight. "You have grown another head."

His rolled eyes closed, sucking in as her fingers worked their charms. "Touch me like that some more, and I can't be responsible for what may happen after," he groaned, forcing his eyes open in a feeble attempt to add credibility to his threat.

They fell back into the pillows, in a tangle of limbs. Her grip never wavered, coaxing him into further firmness as he kissed her.

"Hands of an angel, I'll swear, Kitty," he said in a tight-throated rasp. Bracing his forehead against hers, he moaned, arching his hips into her manipulations. "Hands of an angel, but fingers of the devil."

**Sometime **in the night, Kate woke, rolling her eyes as she lay on her side. Compared to the earlier pandemonium, the house had fallen deathly still. The candles in the bedroom had guttered out, leaving the furnishings to loom and lurk in the shadowed corners like crouching creatures.

Quiet laughter and the solitary wail of a hornpipe rode the breeze from outside. Men of the sea, the pirates preferred open sky and fresh air to sleeping inside a house.

The quiet rattle of Jack sleeping came from next to her. She peered carefully over her shoulder at him. Sometimes, if he were overly tired or agitated, sleeping with him was like sleeping with a whirlygig. Unable to find peace, his arms and legs churned and thrashed. Now, he lay in across the expansive bed at a partial angle, limbs akimbo, while one hand still touched her shoulder. In the dim light, his head was a dark blur, his hair a tangle of snakes amid the roiled bedclothes.

Kate carefully slipped out of bed, hesitating in mid-motion when Jack snuffled and stirred. He frowned in his sleep, his mouth moving silently. And then he stilled, slipping back to his steady breathing.

She seized Jack's shirt from the back of a chair and slipping it over her head, on her way to the balcony doors. Leaned against the door jam, she took in the night. Not far from the house, there was the glow of campfires, orange jewels against the black velvet, their flames flickering through the towering live oaks that surrounded the house, flaring orange on the weathered faces of the pirates as they lounged. The ground was dotted with the shapeless humps of those already sleeping, while others more reluctant to surrender sat around, their voices drifting toward her in scattered bursts, broken by the wind and the rustling of the trees. So hushed by the distance, Kate strained to listen, uncertain if it had been the men that woke her, or something else.

The crystalline ebony of the night sky could be seen in intermittent snatches through the limbs overhead. Compared to the freshness of at sea, the night air on land was almost too thick to breath, heavy with the smells of greenery and dirt, flowering vines and fires, burnt sugar and low tide.

It was that time, when it was no longer night, yet day was still too far away to contemplate. It was these hours of limbo that she would wake, and wonder, feeling as stretched between the sun and the moon as time, caught between the world she should be living and the one she was in, here and there, what she had had and what she would never have again.

"What if" and "if only" were questions she couldn't allow. Those only brought a morass of regrets and doubts that were near impossible to dig out of. She was where she was; certainly, those Greek philosophers that Brian had read to her would have understood.

It was all so surreal, the tropical night, the _Black Pearl_ lying at anchor, a notorious pirate in the bed behind her; she often found herself thinking that it had to be a dream. There was a fear of waking, however, wondering where reality awaited her, while she attempted to fathom when the dream may have begun. More importantly, when did the nightmare start: when her mother died? When her father sent her away, never to see her family or home again? When she fled the Colonies and an arranged marriage, or when she jumped off the _M_e_lody_, trying to make it all stop?

Where did the dream begin? If she lay back down in bed, would she wake to find Brian next to her, sleeping on his back, as he always did?

That thought brought a bubble of panic. If it were a dream, then as easily as that bubble might burst, Jack would be gone, no more than a simple figment of her imagination.

Kate smiled into the dark. Her answer was right there: no single person's imagination could ever conjure Jack. He was uniquely a person unto himself.

No, Jack was real, so very real. He filled her senses, her life—filled her world.

The wind stirred, tugging the shirttail at her knees, billowing out the sleeves. She batted back several locks of errant hair from her face as she propped her head against the wood of the doorway, crossing her arms against the chill. She could feel the brand pressing against her arm. That was real, too.

Jack rose to the responsibility of being captain, had eagerly pursued it, and just as he had taken the responsibility of the welfare of his crew, he had taken over her well-being, without hesitation. But the responsibility for her heart; how would he respond to that? She wasn't confident that he would accept that nearly as willingly, bolting at the slightest intimation that she might wish to anchor him down.

If she stood back and looked, as a distant observer, her future look entirely grim—but she didn't care. She had spent years with Brian, planning a life, carefully making decisions to grow old together—and to what end?

No, she would take life as it came, no questions, no arguments, and no plans. She would enjoy it—enjoy Jack, for all she could. Like the night, it could all soon be gone.

The soft metallic clatter of Jack's hair oddments announced his arrival. He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her, cupping her breasts as he drew her against him, burying his lips into her hair. Still warm from sleep, it radiated through the linen folds of his shirt to her night-chilled skin.

"Something amiss?" he murmured sleepily against her neck.

"I don't know," she said, thoughtfully scanning the dark. "I keep getting a feeling. Maybe, it's this house. You can feel it; there used to be a family here, lives being lived. What happened to them? It's all gone, lost."

"That wasn't by our hand; they were gone before we got here."

"I know," she sighed in quiet exasperation, leaning deeper into his embrace. "I guess I'm not cut out for this sort of thing. I struggle celebrating at the expense of someone else's misfortune."

His shoulder moved a fraction, in a faint dismissive shrug. "It's what pirates do, luv," he said simply, muffled by her hair. "We take what we can. They left it, and now it's ours. It's a simple equation."

"Well, I'm not a pirate," she said with firm conviction. "Don't you wonder where these people are, what happened to them? What happens if they come back, and their home is gone, destroyed?"

Jack's sigh hinted of exasperation. "They're gone," he said in his own eloquent simplicity. "And we're here." He slid one hand down her arm, curving it with his around her waist. "Not a pirate, eh? Then what are you doing here?"

The question wasn't uttered as a challenge, just a thread of logic… at least a logic that made sense to him. It wasn't a question that she hadn't asked herself, a dozen times over. More than once, she had a sensation of being someone else, watching from a far corner, wondering how she ever wound up on a pirate ship—sleeping with a notorious pirate.

It was blessedly impossible to carry on any rational line of thought just then, when her mind and body were melding around another distraction.

"Jack, I'm here, because you're here," she replied, running her hand along his forearm, lacing her fingers over the back of his. "If you decided to go gold mining in the mountains of South America or herd camels in the deserts of Arabia, I'd be there."

His arms tightened at that, his attentions growing more industrious. Kate leaned her head back against his shoulder, allowing him access to her neck. Closing her eyes, she rode with the slow roll of his hips against hers.

Kate's head suddenly came up, peering suspiciously into the night. "Did you hear something?"

"Just me cock, sayin' it wants more." Tightening his grip, he pressed himself against her, the proof of his statement prodding between her buttocks.

"Hmm." Submitting readily to the distraction, she hummed, half in thought, half in delight, tipping her head back as he nuzzled her neck. "A talking cock, I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"Greedy bastard talks all the time."

Her breath caught as he found a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear. "More than you?"

She felt him smile against her skin. "Always. Can't get a word in edgewise."

"And what do you two find to talk about?"

"You," he said simply, into her hair. "One subject never varies; bloody single-minded," he added, being single-minded in his own actions. "Can't be distracted, can't be bribed."

Her own smile grew in spite of his amorous attentions and she turned in his arms, with a puzzled look. "Bribed?"

"Aye, offers—exchanges—negotiations." He seemed a bit surprised that she didn't understand.

Kate shook her head, baffled. "How… I mean, what…?"

His mouth twitched, one brow arching, as he realized further explanations would be in order, before he would be making any other progress.

"There are times," he began slowly, measuring each word carefully, "occasions—usually when you're not about—when there are needs, which must be…answered. I—being the captain of me own personal vessel—can offer that which is needed, to answer said need."

He batted his lashes, proud of his delicacy and skilled self-management.

"Did you say '_usually',_ when I'm not about?"

Not expecting that small, overlooked detail to be singled out, he groped for an explanation. "Sometimes, the needs are too strong… or too often… or too inconvenient—it can be a bit awkward—"

Hitching his shoulders, his eyebrows drew together to complete his point, sensing the need to be sensitive and compassionate toward her sensibilities.

"And so, you _negotiate_ another solution with yourself?" she repeated carefully, not wanting to miss, or confuse, a single point of his convoluted logic.

"No, darling," he corrected patiently. "You weren't listening—"

Still puzzled, Kate shook her head, hoping that maybe it was the hour that was making her feel dense. "I thought I was."

"Me cock;" he clarified, patiently. "I negotiate with him."

Kate couldn't help but smile at that mental image. "It would have to be _him_, wouldn't it?"

"Damned awkward, if it wasn't." Jack wrapped his arms tighter around her, pulling her close, and flexing his hips against hers, leaving his intentions indubitable "Are you coming back inside, or am I going to have to take you right here, for all to see?"


	7. Chapter 7: In the Light of Day

**Chapter Seven: In the Light of Day**

**Kate** awoke slowly, the depths of her slumber interrupted by a familiar smell, distant, but tantalizing. Warm and sharp, it beckoned like a crooked finger, dragging her closer and closer to the brink of the day.

_Coffee!_

She opened her eyes to the sight of Jack, the tip of his tongue protruding at the corner of his mustache, concentrating in wide-eyed fascination, as he wafted the cup back and forth past her nose, too enraptured with his own activity to notice she had wakened. She clamped her eyes shut to fend off the image of someone so insufferably chipper—and already fully dressed.

"Ah!" he declared in triumphant satisfaction, when she finally braved opening her eyes a second time. "You're awake!"

"Isn't that what you wanted?" she grumbled, trying to glean as much crossness from her voice as possible.

Jack blithely deflected her irritation, with the same ease as he dismissed anything he found inconvenient. "You are wasting the best part of the day."

"You sound like my mother," she said through a yawn, pushing up higher amid the pillows.

She eagerly reached for the cup, only to have Jack evade her grasp, holding the cup to one side as he waggled a scolding finger.

"Ah-ah! Good manners dictate gratitude should always be offered, _before_ you accept a gift."

Seeing the tease in his eyes, she took him by a hand full of cords and kissed him, thoroughly.

Jack hummed in dreamy contentment when she finished. "Always like the ones that taste like sleep."

Yielding to Kate's silent pleas, he relinquished the cup, and watched with wounded pride as she relished her first drink, pleasurably rolling her eyes. "I'd rather like to think you prefer me first of a morning, as opposed to that…stuff," he finished with a disdainful flutter of fingers.

She took a lesson from him, and simply ignored him, knowing that he was only caviling. Her kiss may have tasted of sleep, but his tasted of the very brew his was criticizing.

"It's also considered ill mannered to taunt an ill person" she countered, off-handedly changing the subject with the same casualness as he often did.

Jack's head jerked up. "Who's ill?" He pressed a palm to the side her cheek, searching her face "You aren't well?"

"I have a crashing headache," she said hovering over the cup rim, deeply inhaling the curling steam.

Sagging with relief, he chuckled, arching a knowing brow. "That would be the Madiera, me deara. It's known to have a bit more punch than one might expect."

"I feel like I was punched several places." She shifted her weight, wincing slightly at several sore places.

Half-shy, half-pleased, he lowered his eyes, his lashes fanned dark across his cheeks. "Sorry I was rough, there at the last." Lifting her hand from the bed, he laced his fingers through hers, tenderly stroking the fine bones with his thumb. "Shouldn't have done that."

Finding a mirror in each other's eyes, they resorted to a delicate jousting of thumbs, a silent conversation, saying more in a few touches than dozens of words ever could.

Taking another drink, Kate regarded him judiciously over the edge of the rim. "A man your age should be loosing a bit of that punch… by the third time."

Jack grinned, one of those laden with gold and ivory. "Not when you're about, darling. In fact—" his words faded as he squirmed, tugging at the front of his breeches.

"Don't tell me you're having your conversation again," she said, sliding him a cautious look, recalling their conversation of the night before.

"As we speak, luv. Can hardly expect me goods resist the sight of you lying there, what with your lovelies peeking out from under your hair and all, looking at me. Bloody insensitive, I'd say."

Following the line of his gaze, Kate hitched the sheet higher under her arms, murmuring a 'Sorry'.

"Don't be, darling." His eyes were fixed on his task as his fingers walked up the sheet, methodically inching it back down. "Something so lovely is nothing to be ashamed of, nor to be kept hidden."

Her breast was pale against his tanned hand as he cupped it, a be-ringed thumb brushing the nipple, bringing it up, hard and taut. He bent down to it, his forehead colliding with the cup. Hissing an alarm, Kate managed to sweep the cup sideways, handily avoiding hot liquid being spilled on either of them. Narrowing one eye, Jack glowered at the cup, and then pouted, as if it had been some diabolical plot on her part to deny him.

Batting one of his beard dangles with a teasing finger, Kate winked. "Just allow me have one more drink, and then I'll—"

Jack's sullenness immediately dissolved into a smug grin. "Can't get enough of me, can you?"

The pounding of boots approaching out in the hallway, and the heavier thud of a fist, pounding on the bedroom door broke them apart.

"Capn'!" shouted Gibbs, the muffling effect of the door didn't dilute the urgency in his voice. "Cap,n!"

Falling forward, Jack dropped his head between his arms in frustrated disgust. "This better be good!" he growled, and then raised his head, managing to only hide a fraction of his frustration as he answered. "Yes, Master Gibbs?"

"Sir, there be somethin' ye need to be seein'."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jack clamped his lower lip between his teeth, mournfully shaking his head. "Now?"

"Aye, sir… now!"

Jack swore vehemently under his breath, referring to several animals and their parts. "Very well, _Mister_ Gibbs, I'll be there directly."

He planted a light kiss on the slope of her breast. "Sorry, darling." Then he slid his gaze up to Kate, shrugging in resignation. "It would seem I'm indispensable."

Setting down the cup on the bedside stand, she slipped her arm around his neck. "To us all, dear Captain, to us all." She kissed him again, giving him a small taste of what he would be missing.

The corner of his mouth lifted as he sat back. "Hold that thought; I'll be back directly."

Kate watched as Jack retrieved his boots and stockings from the other side of the room, her concern growing. "Aren't I coming with you?"

Jack straightened to view her over his shoulder with a narrow look. "Like that?"

"Give me three minutes," she said, and eagerly bound out of bed.

Jack made a skeptical noise as Kate scampered to the dressing room. "I could give you double, and it still wouldn't be enough! I've seen you dress," he called in her wake, stomping his foot into his boot.

She popped her head back out from around the door. "Well then, stop sitting there, complaining, and come help!"

Flop-armed, and with a muffled groan, he obediently trudged into the room, stopping at the doorway. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked, after expelling a monstrous sigh.

"You know…" Kate paused as she pulled on her shift. "You're handier with laces, than I am," she finished when her head popped free.

He held up a finger, squinting a warning eye. "A skill that should not, under any circumstances, be held against me, I might point out."

Once she donned her stays, Jack bent to his task, elegantly nimble fingers coaxing the ties into proper order. "Hold still," he muttered, frowning. "Stop fidgeting."

"Don't pull so hard!" A sharp jerk on the laces was his response. "Not so tight!" she gasped, holding her hand to her midriff. "I can't breathe!"

"Keep complaining, darling," he said through clenched teeth, but with a teasing lilt. "And you'll not breathe for the remainder of the week."

Jack's levity was bathed in sarcasm, gentle, but still enough to register the fact that he wasn't pleased with her insistence on going with him. Some of his irritation was probably a leftover from the day before, when she had refused to yield to his wishes then, as well.

Acquiescing, she stood as still as possible, examining the top of his head as he worked.

"You've put your hair all back," Kate noted. Jack jerked his head aside, avoiding her as she reached out then shot her a cautionary look. "When did you do all that?"

"Oh, I had loads of time, waiting for you to rise from your slumber, _dearest_." Giving the ties a final tug, he turned and began tossing about the room. "Where's you arms?"

She held her hands out to her sides. "Right here."

Turning around, the look of relief fell from his face. Failing to see her humor, he propped his hands on his hips, like a parent scolding a recalcitrant child.

"No! You're arms, your weapons! Where did you leave the sword and pistol you were given yesterday?"

Suddenly feeling very much like that very child, Kate bit the inside of her mouth, pointing toward the bedroom. "In there…I think."

With a disgusted sound, Jack's arms arced through the air as punctuations to his warnings. "A pirate should always know," he began, his voice fading as he made his way into the bedroom, "the whereabouts of his weapons, and _in the other room_ is, by no means, an option."

"I'm no pirate," she countered insistently, several steps behind him on his erratic path.

With a sound of delighted discovery, he gathered the arms and beckoned her with a crooked finger.

"Today you are," he announced, slipping the baldric over her head. "Now, put these on, and don't let me catch you without them." He emphasized his directive with a firm thrust of the pistol into the waist of her skirt, a stern look and a finger in her face. "Mind, _never_ without!"

Already dressed for the day, it was a simple matter for Jack of donning his own weapons while they made their way downstairs. They met Gibbs in the foyer, pacing, a look of relief brightening an otherwise pre-occupied and troubled face.

"Sorry to be disturbin' ye," he said, only out of obligation. He slid a more apologetic look over his shoulder toward Kate.

"Yes, yes Gibbs," Jack interjected, rolling his eyes, barely tolerant. "We know all about it."

"This way, Cap'n," Gibbs said, already leading off down the hallway.

Gibbs always had a directness about him, but he was particularly purposeful in his strides as he made his was through the house and kitchens. He paused several times, ostensibly to reassure himself that Jack and Kate were still behind him. Jack kept waving an impatient hand, goading his First Mate forward faster. There was an overall trepidation in Gibbs' step, a dread hanging on his shoulders.

Leaving the cooking wing, Gibbs led them down the graveled paths, around to the back of the house. At one point he stopped, and stepped off the graveled path, into the soft dirt and hedges, barring the branches aside to make way for Jack and Kate to pass. The house formed an L-shape, and in the lee, was a hole in the ground, a cellar, for lack of a better word. The ground had been trampled and churned, the remnants of something resembling a trap door thrown off to the side. A rough framework of beams set off stone steps that lead down under the buildings foundations.

Gibbs seized a lamp that sat at the top of the opening, hesitating as he shifted his eyes warily between Jack and Kate.

"Might could be," he began, finally landing a meaningful look on Kate, "you'd might prefer to linger up here, sir."

"Don't be ridiculous," was Kate's automatic response, before Jack could say anything.

Gibbs gave her a more determined stare, looking to Jack for support. "'Tis not a sight most women would be wantin' to see, _sir._"

"Gibbs," Kate began, with level patience. "If there's no women on the _Black Pearl_, then I'm certainly not included in that circle, am I?"

Kate's resolve ignited an appreciative spark in Jack, though he did seem undecided as to whether or not she should follow. He made a weak gesture, arching one brow in hopeful suggestion, but she only brushed past, following Gibbs down the narrow steps.

It was necessary to turn their feet sideways in order to manage the steep stones, slippery with moisture. The darkness swallowed them, the morning light fading almost immediately, leaving only the feeble glow of Gibbs' lantern to break the crypt-like void. Now Kate knew how a ferret felt when it went to ground.

Not much wider than the width of two people side-by-side, the passage was narrow, with a ceiling low enough to make Kate want to duck her head. Never having been one given to fears of things that crept in the dark, she still had visions of things unknown dangling from above. The atmosphere was still and lifeless, with the dank mustiness of a space left undisturbed for too long. Their footsteps were muffled by air heavy with the smell of rock and dirt, mingled with the oil from the lamp Gibbs carried, and burning wax. Above all else, another odor grew, cloying and more pervasive.

Gibbs moved slowly, with more reluctance than determination, seemingly hoping someone would intervene and divest him of his duties. His hunched, square form in front of her, black against the glow of his lantern, was her only reference in the abyss. She could hear Jack behind her, occasionally touching her on the hip, either to reassure her that he was right behind her, or to confirm to that she was still there.

The Stygian darkness was disorienting, and Kate focused on the bobbing light ahead, trying not to think about the pressing weight of stone above their heads, the images of the passage closing behind them, burying them alive, or the terror, if that single beacon were to suddenly extinguish. The chilling damp, that was beginning to creep into her bones, didn't make that task any easier. It was difficult to maintain any coherent thoughts as the air became fouler with each step.

Finally, there were voices ahead, and a dim light grew. The passage opened to perhaps to two or three times its original size, where Bandai, O'Leary and Chin stood waiting. Kate wasn't sure if it was the familiar faces or just the sight of another light, or humans that was more a welcome relief.

"We found this first," Gibbs announced, his bass voice echoing grimly off the stone.

He waved his light, indicating a large wooden door, heavily braced with ironwork. Kate had seen castles in Scotland with doors less reinforced. Slime-ridden and black with mold, it was criss-crossed with iron bands, and bore a padlock nearly the size of her hand, hanging open from the pin. Gibbs gave Kate and Jack a warning look. At his nod, the steel of the latches echoed as Chin flipped them back and hauled the door open.

A stench exploded from the opening, hitting Kate like a blow to the chest, a staggering combination of offal, urine, rot, sweat, vomit... and death. Her hand instantly came to her nose, but there was no blocking the foulness.

With a squeeze on her arm, Jack bid Kate to stay. Ducking under the lentil, he stepped in only as far as the footprint of the lamp Gibbs held. Bringing his sleeve to his face, he peered into the gloom.

"'Pears to have been a lot of people in there, Cap'n," Gibbs said, as he followed Jack in.

Jack was oddly quiet. "I know that smell." His voice was a hoarse whisper, roughened by more than just the thick atmosphere.

Jack spun around and came back out, tersely gesturing for Chin to close the door. His eyes shifted uncertainly, too haunted to look at anyone directly. A sheen of sweat glistened in the light across his cheeks. He tried to smile, but the levity never reached his eyes.

"Now you know what a slaver smells like," Jack murmured, risking a brief glance at Kate.

"There's more." Gibbs' words were ominous, like a death sentence.

Coughing to clear their lungs of the rot, they left behind the comfort of faces and light. The walls of the passage immediately closed back in, the hostility of the darkness being mollified as they left the worst of the stink behind. Gibbs' lantern cast shifting shadows, grotesque and surreal figures oscillating with the curves of the walls as he took them deeper aground.

The respite of clearer air was short-lived, as it soon grew no better than what they had just left. Rather than the fetid stench they had just left behind, this one Kate knew. It had hung over the battlefields of the Rising, one that she had come to know all too well: blood and the rot of human flesh. Recognizing it made the smell no less offensive.

Soon, the smell intensifying, the passage opened again, somewhat larger area than the one before, with yet another door. It stood open, with two more crewmen, DeJenkin and Stevens, waiting uncomfortably to one side. If the first door was to be considered as reinforced, then this one was a stockade, double the thickness, and ironworks that framed it. Kate strained not to cough as her eyes began to water; every cough going out, would be immediately followed by a deeper breath in.

Kate gave no argument when Jack gestured for her to stay, as he followed Gibbs into the small space. No larger than a root cellar, with low, wooden benches, one along the wall, the other tipped and askew on the floor. As the men moved about with their lights, she caught the gleam of an overturned chamber pot in one corner.

Someone had been planning on spending more than just a few hours in there.

Kate caught glimpses of the walls outside and the door. There were marks, primitive scratches, resembling something that might have been made with a charred stick, scattered across the walls and the door.

It was difficult to fathom what purpose such a place could serve. A jail? It hardly seemed worth all the effort of digging such a place for that. The space brought to mind the priest holes of the Highlands, used to hide the Catholic clergy from the rampaging Protestant authorities. But, the Caribbean was hardly the center of religious confrontation. Again, there would be no reason to go to such lengths to hide someone.

The light also caught something else, reddish-brown stains, splattered up the walls, over the benches, and pooled darkly in the floor.

Blood.

At almost the same time as Kate noticed it, Jack looked down at the dirt and recoiled, taking several steps back. Long since dried on the floor, the stale air was still thick with the coppery tang of it. In some places, the blood had begun to flake with age. Other places, where it had collected the heaviest, the surrounding damp had kept it in a suspended state of semi-wet.

"Mind yer step, Cap'n." Gibbs voice echoed off the bare stone, as he cast the light lower to show ominous, half-rotten globs scattered on the dirt.

"What the hell happened in here?" Jack's rasping voice sounded so strange within the small confines, Kate wouldn't have recognized it if she hadn't seen his lips move.

"The door was open when we got here," Gibbs explained. As he held the light closer, to show the tear marks in the wood, like a caged animal, wild to get out. "Interesting thing..."

"What?" Jack was looking a bit dismayed, and a lot disquieted, by the entire grisly scene.

Gibbs always had a penchant for drama, and he couldn't help but add his own little measure of it. "If ye'll notice," Gibbs began, with a heavy pause. "The door back there was locked from the outside."

"Trying to keep something in," Jack reasoned.

"Aye, and this one here," Gibbs said, lifting the lamp toward the door for better illustration of his point, "locks from the inside."

"Trying to keep something... out," Jack concluded grimly, lifting a brow.

"With every seam and niche blocked with iron," Gibbs added, pointing to the formidable reinforcements at the framework and joints.

Jack looked back into the dim, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Did you find anything else in there?"

"Not much: a lamp, a book..."

The only conclusion that could be made there: as the chamber pot had indicated, who ever had made use of the space, they were planning on spending considerable lengths of time.

"And an empty brandy bottle."

The bottle would have been brought down there either to help pass the time, or to steady the nerves of that same lone person.

"What the hell happened in here?" Kate asked it this time, but it was a question weighing on everyone's mind.

"A struggle," Jack said unnecessarily, and then added grimly, "And someone lost."

It was a mystery, but not one any of them cared enough to want to linger much longer.

Unable to stave it off any longer, a fit of coughing took Kate, her eyes watering with the effort as she gagged. Jack jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed it to her face, steadying her by one arm.

"Get us out of here."

Gibbs eagerly obliged Jack's demand, leading the way out at a considerably faster pace. DeJenkins and Stevens followed closely behind, Chin and the others falling in behind them as they passed their position. Kate was still struggling to catch her breath, while Jack steered her, one hand holding the handkerchief and the other at her waist. The feel of something human and warm was more reassuring to her than anything else.

The journey underground hadn't seemed that far, but it was an eternity to escape the clutches of the earth. Panicked fears began to clutch at her, that perhaps they had been swallowed, entombing them all forever. Finally, a glow appeared ahead, shimmering in the wetness of her tear-filled eyes. The daylight slowly grew, eventually overcoming Gibbs lamp. Unable to cope further with the foul air, Kate drew a final breath and held it as Jack propelled her up the steps, back into the blazing warmth of the day.

Leaning against Jack, Kate exhaled explosively, gasping. All of them stood hacking in a desperate attempt to expel the miasma from their lungs. The rush of clear air had a dizzying effect that set Kate wobbling, Jack's steadying arm tightening around her.

"We only found it just this mornin'," Gibbs explained hoarsely, his eyes still tearing as he coughed. "Can't figure it."

"Perhaps it's something not to be figured," Jack cleared his throat with a sound that resembled ripping canvas. "There was _nothing_ down there valuable, and _that's_ the only thing we came for. Keep you mind on your tasks, Gibbs. I don't give a bloody damn about some demented, French, sugar farmer, and his eccentric fetishes."

"Do you think that's what all that was?" Kate was a little stunned by Jack's cavalier attitude.

"Do you have a better answer?" demanded Jack as he turned on her.

Kate started to reply, but was interrupted by another coughing fit, bracing a hand on Jack's shoulder as the fit worsened, his face clouding as he helplessly watched.

"You need rum… or something," he was quick to correct, at her barbed look. "Your flask, if you please, Gibbs…"

"_Capitão!__Você deve vir!"_

Diogo came running from the far side of the house, spilling a tirade of Portuguese. Skidding to a halt, he babbled further, requiring several, "_Inglês, por favor_!" from Jack before he could contain himself.

Gulping, Diogo nodded. "You must come!"

The wild look in his eyes urged everyone to follow. Jack supported Kate, with Gibbs close behind, while the remaining cluster of the men fell in line, either out of the possibility of danger, or simply morbid curiosity.


	8. Chapter 8: Grisly Tour

**Chapter Eight: Grisly Tour**

**The** entourage followed Diogo's dark, curly head to the back of the cooking wing, through the yard gardens, to a small, low stone building with the slit-windows of a springhouse, under the spreading shade of live oak trees, where more men stood, looking strained.

Meeting them at the corner of the building, Hughes moved to block Kate's path, but looked to Jack. "Cap'n, Mr. Kate might be preferrin' to be waitin' here."

A stern glance from Jack was sufficient to encourage Kate stay put while he and the rest followed Hughes inside. Given what they had just witnessed, she was willing to wait, but as soon as she was alone, the chill of the underground sunk deeper into her bones. In desperate need of the warmth of human company, she quickly went around the corner and in.

"Oh, my God!" Stunned, Kate sagged back, her hand flying to her mouth.

Encircled by the men, in a littered, tumbled swirl of dried leaves, and churned dirt, laid a pulpy mass of wet. dark red, strands of rent cloth, and glints of something lighter, possibly bone or sinew, strewn and tangled in the muddied ground.

The crunch of leaves and twigs marked Cameron's movement to Jack's side, both men staring at the ground. "We found… it, just a few minutes ago," the Scot said.

"It took until now?" Jack muttered, with thinly veiled disbelief. His gaze was as unwavering as everyone else's in the cramped space, mesmerized by the grisly scene, all wearing the same mask of stunned puzzlement. Kate was no different, reproaching herself for being so morbid, and yet unable to look away.

"It was dark," was Cameron's simple explanation. "No one thought to look awa' back here. A springhoose didna 'pear to offer much in the way o' anything."

"What is it?" Kate asked, almost to herself.

Jack gulped. "A person… or was… I think."

Squatting down on his haunches, Gibbs squinted to examine the remains more closely. "'Pears fairly fresh."

"Last night?" Flashes of standing on the balcony, thinking she had heard something, came to Kate's mind.

"Probably," Jack replied quietly, barely nodding.

Kate's eyes followed Jack's as they traveled up the nearest wall and doorway, along the beams overhead, and then to the opposite wall, all splattered with a glistening dark. Flies droned, stirring up from the mass in the dirt at any movement in the cramped space, nearly drowning out the gentle gurgle of the spring water moving through the cooling troughs that lined the walls. The wind pressed through the slit openings, clouding everyone in the shed in a heavy, metallic smell of blood, mixed with damp vegetation, dirt and flesh going fetid.

The gorge of bile began to rise in her throat. Clamping her hand to her mouth, Kate stumbled away. Once outside, she woodenly retraced her path, pressing past the cold dampness of the shade, not stopping until the reassuring warmth of the sun fell across her shoulders. There she braced her back against the stonewall, and pressed her hand to her stomach, focusing on forcing the air in and out slowly from her lungs, trying to clear her head of the stench, and the ringing in her ears that was building.

"Are you all right, luv?"

Startled, Kate jerked and yelped, not realizing that she had closed her eyes, until Jack touched her arm. She opened them to find him bent close, his brow crumpled with concern.

Giddy-headed, she nodded, gulping. "I've seen the horrors of war, and the worst cruelties in life… but never anything like that."

Taking Kate by the elbow, Jack guided her to a bench nestled in a quiet corner of the garden wall, under a bower of rose rambler that had gone rampant. Seeing her settled, he crouched down in the dirt at her knee, worriedly searching her face. Apparently alarmed by what he saw, he took off his hat and began fanning, watching closely for a signs of what she might do next.

Kate flapped a feeble hand, trying to wave him away, indicating that she was fine, but not convincingly enough for him to stop. The face that she couldn't yet speak probably having something to do with his determined attentions. She rarely fainted, but was very familiar with the warning signs, the same ones that filled her ears, and narrowed her vision.

"I'm fine," she finally wheezed.

Only slightly gratified by that statement, the flapping of Jack's hat slowed fractionally, the smell of sweat-dampened leather wafting her way, stirring the wisps of hair around her face.

"What could do that?" asked Kate, when she finally found her voice again.

"Animal… of some sort," Jack speculated, still anxiously watching her. "It appears to have been quite a struggle… whatever it was."

"There's more, Cap'n." Gibbs had come up behind them, and was now hovering, flanked by the other men.

Jack's hat hung motionlessly in the air as he peeled a wary look over his shoulder. "More what?" Each word was uttered with singular trepidation.

Gibbs swallowed hard. "More… places," was all he could manage, proceeding with a stilted slowness. "Where… blood's been spilled or about… pieces 'n bits, here 'n there," he ended lamely.

Jack slowly rose, darting glances in several directions. "Where?"

"The side of the barn," the first mate said, lifting his chin one way. "Over beyond the yard garden," he went on, pointing to another. "And back into the bushes, over there…"

"And we're told a few more, out beyond," added Asaid, stepping forward. "Older… those were."

"More… people?" Jack queried.

Gibbs squinted one eye, his wide mouth pressing into a tight line, considering. "Difficult to say."

"Just dried crusts and bones, some places," added Chin, from Asaid's side. "Not enough left to say, with some of the others."

Jack momentarily closed his eyes, and then shook himself, squaring his shoulders to re-assume his commanding air. "Very well. See to it that… that…" he stammered, fingers fluttering toward the springhouse, "gets a proper burial, along with any other… remains found about."

Several more men came around the garden corner, looking relieved at the sight of Jack and Gibbs. Hughes doffed his hat as they drew up, and ducked a respectful nod. Twisting his hat in his hands, he cleared his throat several times, before he was able to begin.

"A word, sir."

Jack nodded, silently motioning for him to continue.

"We've a wish to say as…" Hughes paused, clearing his throat, swallowing several times. The man was always insufferably nervous when speaking to any one he considered above his station, and the apparent stress of the moment wasn't helping matters. "We—the other men and me," he qualified, nodding to his companions, "wuz thinking… as mebbe…"

"Bloody hell, man, out with it!' Jack growled.

"Last night," Hughes began, hastened by his captain's ire. "Owens went to relieve hisself…"

"We were sittin' about the fire, just havin' a bit o' grog," put in Baines.

"Aye," nodded Hughes, eagerly. "And, as I was sayin', he went to relieve himself…"

"Get on with it, man!" Gibbs burst out. "The man when to piss! What's yer point?"

Hughes flinched, then gulped, stammering. "He never came back, sir."

Gibbs' eye narrowed, canting his head as he leaned forward. "What?"

"He never came back," Hughes repeated in patient singularity. "And nay a soul has seen him since."

"Except…" Baines said, lilting with suggestion.

"Except, what?" Jack demanded, the dangles of his beard bobbing from the jerking movements of following the conversation.

"We've seen… that." Hughes indicated the springhouse.

"And?" Jack asked, with a rolling motion of the hand, urging him on.

"It could be him," Baines finished for Hughes, when he could no longer speak. Several of the others nodded in silent concurrence.

"Could be?" Jack echoed, looking between the two sailors. "You'll excuse Master Gibbs and meself, if we insist on a bit more to hang our hats on, than a 'could be.'"

The two men flinched at the bite of their captain's testiness. Kate surreptitiously touched a hand to Jack's back. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword; his fingers lifted slightly in silent affirmation that he understood. He drew a calming breath.

"No, mates," Jack said a little quieter, after summoning his reserve. "It would be difficult to be definitive about any of… it."

"The cloth… it could be his shirt," Hughes offered, in a weak attempt to be empirical, but then shook his head, defeated, twisting his hat unmercifully in his hands. "'Tis fair difficult to say, sir."

One might have said that the cloth bad been the nut-brown homespun of Owens' shirt, but it had been so shredded and stained, certainty was nigh impossible.

"Well," Jack sighed, drawing a tired hand down the curve of his mustache. "Until he's found to be otherwise, which doesn't seem probable, I'd say it's fairly likely it is him. Make sure he receives the respect he deserves, men."

"D' you think he'd prefer land or sea, sir?"

Jack hesitated, looking to Gibbs for an answer that wasn't there. "I can't say, Hughes. Didn't particularly know the man well enough to know what he preferred for the afterlife." He was clearly disquieted by the notion that he was so devoid of understanding of one of his own men. "Consult with his mates; perhaps they can offer some enlightenment. If not, then make it your own choice, aye?"

"Aye, sir."

As Jack watched the men walk away, Gibbs drew to attention. "Orders, Cap'n?"

"'Tis time for precautions." Jack pensively surveyed the buildings and grounds with a new eye. "Post guards—in pairs—and start searches in widening circles. I want to know just what it is we're dealing with, here. Any luck with the money Barker spoke of?"

"Nothing yet, sir," Gibbs responded with a definite note of regret. "But if it be here, we'll find it."

"Very well." Jack nodded, already lost in another thought. "Keep a sharp eye and report the instant you find anything. Make it so, Mr. Gibbs."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Gibbs wheeled on the encircling men. "Well," he bellowed. "Ye are heard yer captain! Get t' movin', the lot o' ya's!"

Jack sat heavily on bench next to Kate. Hunched forward on his elbows, his hair curtained around him as he pensively stared at his hands. Slowly flexing them in and out, the bones and tendons stood rigid under the skin, splaying his fingers wide, examining them as if they were some new addition. The tree branches creaked as it bent with a gust, a rain-shower of rose petals falling over the both of them, pattering in Jack's coat and hair.

Once the men had left, their small niche fell quiet, only the rustling of the leaves and the creak of the tree limbs to break the silence, allowing both of them a bit of respite from an already tumultuous day—and the sun wasn't even at its height.

Jack was by no means faint of heart, but he seemed to be feeling as swept over by the morning's discoveries as everyone else. Taken on their own merits, any one of the deaths or discoveries would have been manageable; taken on the whole was bordering on overwhelming. Blood and mayhem was nothing new to a pirate; life at sea had hardened them all. But random, seemingly senseless carnage was more than disquieting.

As Kate sat quietly next to him, she strained to recall Owens. A short, slight man, with a square-face, his taciturn attitude toward women had prevented her from becoming as familiar with him as she had many of the others. After attempting two or three times to strike up a conversation with him, and being met with stolid resistance, she had taken the hint and left him to his own council. His other most remarkable characteristic was, instead of the usual headscarf or hat to keep his hair away from his face, he tarred his hair, including the braid at the back, where it stuck out like a pig's tale at every bend of his head.

Finally, Jack jerked as he looked over his shoulder, as if he had forgotten she was there. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," she said, more shakily than she had anticipated. She took several more breathes, steadying, before continuing. "Now what?"

It was a question that was weighing on both of their minds; Kate was just the first to verbalize it.

"I don't know." Still braced on his knees, his dark eyes broodingly scanned the deserted buildings and empty fields. "Something doesn't feel right, that's for bloody certain."

This time, it was Jack that was first to put into words, what she had been thinking, since the moment they had stepped foot on the dock the night before. There was something about the place, an air, a mood, an overall sense of something being drastically wrong. The irony of his statement was that she had said as much a couple of times before, and had been dismissed with the same casual off-handedness as Jack did, with anything he found inconvenient.

The corner of his mouth tucked up, and one shoulder twitched. He recalled as well.

"I kept thinking the same thing last night." Kate bit the inside of her mouth as she looked around at the abandoned plantation, now teaming with pirates. "You know what it is? Look around. Listen. There's nothing alive here. No birds, no squirrels, no dogs, no people…nothing.

Jack made a face as he swatted at a persistent fly. "There are still insects."

For the first time since their arrival, Kate saw the plantation in its entirety and in the daylight. It had once been a grand place, success and wealth evident everywhere, from the luxurious house and expansive gardens, to the large stables and barns, an overseer's house across the grounds, and the lengthy rows of slave's quarters beyond that.

It wasn't totally unlike the _rancho_ where she had grown up, or the Mackenzie family estate in the Highlands. At home, in Tejas, it had been cattle, and the estate, oats, barley and rye, rather than sugar cane. But a working farm was a working farm, no matter what it was called, or where it was located, a miniature pocket of civilization, isolated for the most part, and virtually self-sufficient.

Indeed, the plantation on Bienveillant had been a grand place, but neglect and the tropical elements had taken their toll. Shutters hung at off-angles at the main house's window, its flowering shrubs and gardens rampantly overgrowing every surface. The fields were going to weed, the fences and barns in dire need of repair, while the paddocks and pastures were belly-high in grass, a luscious feast for livestock long gone missing.

"Look at this place!" Kate said in wonderment. "It was once a huge plantation; a working farm: there's no livestock, the gardens are filled with weeds, and the fields haven't been touched. It's as if they all just... walked away. This place was alive with people, living their lives."

"Slavery is no life," Jack snorted, dropping his attention to his hands once again.

"You're ignoring my point," she said evenly, pressing on. "Good, bad, or in between, they were still people living their lives, from one day to the next, with hopes and dreams, loves and heartbreaks—and now it's all gone." She sighed, stricken by the futility. "Let nature have its course just a little while longer, and you'll barely it was here. The fences fall down, the forest moves in, and… it's all gone."

He looked up briefly, his hat casting a shadow across the clean line of his profile, as he considered her thesis. The ropes of his hair swung from his shoulders as he moved, stirring even more radically with the wind.

"Land or sea, darling, there are blessed few that ever make enough of a mark to last much past the next few turns of the seasons," Jack said, dryly.

The wind swirled in their quiet corner, catching up dried leaves and petals, and spiraling them at their feet.

"Rather fatalistic, aren't you? Some manage to build legacies."

"And some, only images," he added, with a grim finality.

It would be difficult to chose, which was Jack's most precious commodity: his image or his ship. He strove so hard for both, one actually part and parcel of the other.

"Captain Jack Sparrow?"

A slight flush rose from his collar. "Something like, that." He picked a rose petal from his sleeve and fondled it, thoughtfully stroking the velvety soft of it in his long fingers. His coat stretched across the curve of his back, the well-worn fabric taut over the swell of his shoulders.

"Not all bad. It's a means to work your way into the memories, usually good for a free drink or two along the way. I've bought me way into many a place, with just me name. Good as the king's coin, often times."

"Especially, with the ladies?"

It wasn't something that she like to think or talk about—she tried to ignore the reality as best she could—but Jack's amorous adventures was not to be ignored.

His mouth moved with a glimmer of an awkward smile as he looked away, the flush at his collar returning. _At least he was smiling_, she thought, _a victory in and of itself_.

Kate realized that they were both allowing the conversation to go in any direction—trivial and off topic—hoping for just a few moments respite from the morning's shocks.

"Not entirely me point, but a bit of a side benefit, to be sure."

"So, that's why you were so deflated that first day I was aboard," she said, in a moment of insight. "You asked if I had heard of you… and I said, 'No.' She turned her head to hide a smile that could have been even more injurious if it were seen. "That must have been a terrible blow."

At the time, she had been too dazed to consider the subtleness of fragile feelings of someone as fearsome appearing as he—at the time, at any rate. How things had changed, in such a short time.

"Certainly made matters more difficult, I'll give you that," he said with a grim tuck of his mouth.

"So, you were banking on that I would have heard the name and would just swoon?"

"Well, not exactly," he stammered, trying to maintain his dignity. He squinted one eye, considering. "But… maybe… something…" he finally qualified.

"But I didn't." She chuckled silently, shaking her head. "I had no idea I had so desperately upset your plans."

Jack risked her a glance, from the corner of his eye, mildly accusing, but conceding that ignorance could be an excuse. He kicked a stone, toying at it with his boot, stalling as he gathered his thoughts. As he moved, his leg pressed against hers, lean and hard, the heat of him welcome against the chill that still plagued her.

"Took me nigh onto another bloody two months to finally get through to you." He shot her another accusing look. "Thought there for a bit, you were going to be totally resistant to me charms… forever. Heart of steel, you were."

Another gentle gust wafted past, stirring the heady sweet of the roses, mingling with Jack's own spicy musk. Just that alone was enough make her blood rush to several places.

She bumped him lightly with her shoulder, mostly to chide him, but also driven by the need to touch him. "Truth be told, you needn't have waited that long."

With a defeated groan, Jack dropped his head as he squeezed his eyes shut, then cracked one, to peek over his shoulder. "Don't tell me that. Really?"

"Absolutely. Your _charms_ were working after two weeks."

His mouth dropped in over-dramatic indignation. "Two weeks? You played me along for another blessed month?"

"No, _you_ were doing the playing," she pointed out, dryly.

"Was not."

"Was, too."

"Was not!"

"Was, too."

Jack shook his head, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Longest month and a half of me life, caught between Heaven and Hell, I was. To have you right there, so close… me palms were near rubbed raw."

He held out his hands in example, as if he expected the redness to still be there. To her, they looked the same softly callused, finely boned hands she had always known.

"Palms?" Jack shot her a meaningful look. "Oh! Palms." She bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud at the wounded look on his face. "You poor dear; suffering in silence."

It was the truth. From the moment she had awakened in his bunk, there had not been a clue as to what he thought or felt. It was a towering testimonial to his powers of inscrutability and deception. With the skill of a master, he had led her into believing friendship was the best that she could ever hope for.

Or, had she been so afraid of losing that very friendship, that she had ignored all the signals? Jack was a lot of things, but 'subtle' was definitely not one of the first traits that popped into one's mind. And yet, he had been eloquently subtle, apparently more afraid than she, of violating what fragile connection they had managed to construct.

And now, he was playing the victim—and had her believing it. But then, how could she feel any other way, in the face of that carefully arranged walnut-eyed, innocent look?

_Bastard._

"You've no idea the tortures."

"No justice in this world, is there?" she asked, biting her lip.

"None," he said, with definitive satisfaction that she was finally seeing matters his way.

Kate plucked at the fabric of her skirt, arranging and rearranging the folds.

"Do you consider yourself the forgiving sort?"

Bracing one hand on his leg, Jack twisted toward her, the corners of his mouth pulling sharply down, the wind tugging the tails of his headscarf about his shoulders. "Forgiving?"

Kate gave it a moment before she answered, allowing for her own bit of drama. "I know it's not exactly a part of the Pirate's Code. I mean, I realize I haven't been privy to the entire text…"

"No one has, believe me," he said judiciously under his breath, rolling his eyes.

"But, I've never heard any mention of 'forgiveness.'"

"Not necessarily the stuff of pirates, to be sure."

"Too bad," she sighed, adding just a bit of a suggestive lilt as she looked off across the grounds.

She could feel Jack's expectant stare boring into the side of her head. Studiously keeping it turned, to hide the smile that she couldn't wipe away, she made him wait just a bit longer.

"I was going to try to atone," she began just as he prepared an outburst, "for at least a few of my inadvertent indiscretions, allow you your pound of flesh."

His lip curled as he squinted through one eye. "Only a pound?"

"Figuratively speaking."

Kate finally looked at him, and he saw the tease in her eyes, and realized that he had been led on. Leaning back, he slid down, tucking his hands in his belts as he extended his legs and crossed his ankles.

"Well," he began, with his own mischievous glint. "Let's see: I figure six weeks, at seven days per week, with twenty-four hours in a day…"

"Twenty-four hours?"

"Seemed like more, twenty-six or twenty-eight, at the least, suffering." He slid an accusing look. "I told you, you have no idea."

"I guess not," she said faintly.

"I figure," he began, closing one eye, his fingers working as he calculated, "round figures, of course—seven hundred and sixty-eight hours."

"That's a lot of hours!" Kate sputtered, hiding her smile in a cough.

"_Plus_ suffering," he added, still running the numbers through his head.

"I thought that _was_ suffering."

"No, no, no!" He wagged a finger, as if he were scolding a child. "Actual time, that. Each hour seemed like two."

"You poor dear. So you're thinking…"

"Over fifteen hundred hours you owe me," he beamed triumphantly, with a gold-laden grin.

It was a staggering number. If she were honest, the thought of all those hours in lying with him was an intriguing thought.

"No, those were just on account." Struggling to erase the mental images that had just popped into her head, she began industriously brushing at a non-existent spot on her skirt.

Jack gave her a blank look. "On account?"

"On account of, I finally gave in to you."

They laughed quietly together at her small joke, both gratified for the diversion.

"So, who's going to be responsible, for the counting of this accounting?" she asked shortly.

Jack affectedly touched his hand to his chest, posing. "Me, of course!"

"Which you'll do with…"

"Impeccability." He gave her one of those liquid brown looks that she felt to every reach, his voice dropping to a husky purr. "Trust me."

The spark in his eye told her that she should do everything but.

"Cap'n!" Gibbs' voice came from beyond the garden wall. As he rounded the corner, every essence of his demeanor said the tidings he was bearing weren't good.

"Now what?" Jack half-moaned under his breath. "Yes, Master Gibbs?"

"Back over there, sir," Gibbs called, jerking a thumb behind him. "They've found something you'll be needin' to see."

Jack's shoulders slumped as he made a noise in the back of his throat. "More?" His brows angled up in disbelief, until they nearly touched.

"Aye, sir." The clouded look on Gibbs' face was all the explanation that was necessary.

Pushing up slowly, Jack gave Kate a cautioning look as she rose, too. "It might be best, if you stay here."

Arching a brow, she gave him a look, which he received with full understanding.

"Aye," he sighed. Grimly resigned, he took her by the elbow. "I knew I was being unreasonable."


	9. Chapter 9: More Questions than Answers

**Chapter Nine: More Questions Than Answers**

**The** walk was further than either Jack or Kate had expected. They passed a limestone, conical-shaped tower that proved to be the cane grinder. First impressions of it were of a windmill, smaller yet very reminiscent of _brochs_ in the Highlands. Unlike those defensive watchtowers, the grinder was crowned with canvas-sailed arms, to catch the wind, which in turn drove the long shaft running down to the raw cane grinder. Shredded, the blades now spun idly. The stone-lined sluice, leading from the pit under the grinders to the boiling house, was nearly invisible under the overgrown weeds, the chimneys of the boilers cold and empty. Burned sugar still hung in the air, a ghostly reminder of what had been, not that long ago.

Weaving their way among the barns, sheds, carriage houses and warehouses, and then beyond the corrals and pastures, Gibbs struck down a path. Narrow, but well worn, it ran through the undergrowth and low trees. In the complete absence of animals, the forest was eerily quiet, filled with a deafening silence, broken by only the occasional buzz or whir of an insect.

The leather of Kate's baldric was heavy across her chest, the sword jouncing against her hip, chafing, with every step. Luckily, the belt rested on her right shoulder; the scar on her left would have never been able to bear the pressure. Some days, the thickened flesh would be so sensitive the mere weight of her clothing was a nearly unbearable irritant. Most days, the scar was only a mild discomfort, pressing down on her shoulder blade with every move. The body had a unique way of becoming accustomed to pain, blithely choosing to ignore it with the same aplomb as Jack did with anything he found inconvenient.

The pistol was another issue, a burden at her waist; digging into her ribs with every step, rubbing another sore spot. Weapons were unpleasant, and most definitely, men's business. Still, if she had refused them, she had no doubt that Jack would have left her on the _Pearl_. They were her ticket, and her penance; she strongly suspected Jack was well aware of the latter.

Ultimately Gibbs halted, and stood aside as he held back several branches.

"Here, sir," he said with a grim look and a tilt of his head.

Jack and Kate stepped out of the trees, into a clearing, not much larger than the _Black Pearl's_ Great Cabin. Several men stood about, ashen-faced, possibly brought on by the purification that hung in the air. One of them moved, revealing a massive post sunk in the ground in the middle of the circle.

Kate lagged behind as Jack moved forward to inspect, Gibbs close behind. Jack pulled up in mid-stride. Balancing on one foot, he slowly raised the sole of his boot, to find a thick brownish lump, matted with grass and pebbles. Holding his pose, he shot Gibbs an accusing look.

"Aye, Cap'n, have a care," Gibbs warned, belatedly.

Wrinkling his nose, Jack waved Kate back as he brushed his boot across the ground, scuffing it clear. The thought of not venturing any further was suddenly quite appealing to Kate. She warily checked her immediate vicinity, experimentally curling her toes in her shoes, feeling for anything stuck that might be stuck there.

Curious, Jack reached for the post, but jerked back his hand. His lip curling with disgust, he pulled his sword, and used the blade tip to inspect the hanging chains. The links clattered softly in the quiet clearing, his eyes tracking their length to the shackles at the end.

"What's the…" Kate's question died, her throat seizing shut, as she realized the answer to her own question.

Clogged and caked, to the point of being nearly obscured in some places, the shackles and chains were encased in a grisly mixture of shreds of dried flesh and shattered bone, mortared with dried blood. The heavily churned ground directly below was darkened to the same reddish-brown that stained the wood.

"Bloody hell," Jack breathed.

His fingers hovered over multiple layers of long scratches. The marks weren't the deeply grooved gouges that would be made by the nails of an animal. These were blunt, a human, frantically clawing at the wood, jerking at the bonds until their wrists bled.

"But no higher than here." Gibbs exhibited, by raising an arm over his head to almost full length.

"No higher than a man's reach."

Swallowing hard, Gibbs nodded.

The brutality of punishment of slaves was well known, but it seemed an unlikely location for a whipping post. Floggings were done in public, an open, graphic example to of the consequences of disobedience.

"And over 'ere, Cap'n," called Bandai, from the margins of the clearing, sidling away from the spot he pointed at. Jack and Gibbs neared, with Kate slightly further behind. "That's a thigh bone."

Crouching, Jack stabbed his sword at the spray of white splinters scattered in the grass, poking until the rounded head of a leg bone appeared.

"That's a human leg."

"Yes, Gibbs," Jack sighed, rising. "So, I see."

"Did a dog do that?" It was Bandai, inching back, his curiosity getting the best of his discretion.

Jack tilted his head, his jaw slipped sideways as he considered. "Highly unlikely. It would have had to have been a monstrous-sized dog, to shatter bones like that." He scanned the clearing with wary puzzlement. "What the bloody hell is this?"

His question hung in the air, unanswered. The unnatural quiet of the clearing suddenly became deafening, and Kate felt the hair rise on her arms. Jack blinked, and jerked.

"That's it!" he announced abruptly, waving a hand back toward where they had just come. "Everyone back!"

Propelling Kate by the arm, Jack hurriedly strode out of the clearing, and back down the path, Gibbs and the others eagerly close behind.

"What do you suppose…?"

"I don't know," Jack cut off Kate's query sharply, stopping to scuff the sole of his boot onto a clump of grass, amid a freshened cloud of fetid stench. "And what's more, I don't care," he added, his eyes widening with conviction. "The subject is closed. Now let's go!"

**Once** returned to the more friendly surroundings of the plantation's buildings, everyone's pace slowed, their nerves eased further by the comforting sight of their mates. Instead of carrying on with their duties, however, a large number of them standing tightly clustered near the shore. As Jack and Kate neared, Petrov, his white-blonde hair gleaming in the sun, met them.

"We found 'im in the surf, sir."

The gathering separated, to allow them through, revealing a single man at the center of attention. Hunched in the sand, a blanket draped loosely over his heaving shoulders, he clutched a steaming cup; his hands quivering as he raised it to his mouth. Stevens and Murray were crouched around him, the latter rising upon their captain's arrival.

"It's Moya, sir." One of the men Gibbs had sent to oversee the _Clothilde,_ the day she had been captured.

The two withdrew another few steps as Jack dropped to one knee next to Moya, and laid an encouraging hand on Moya's shoulder. "What happened, man?"

Moya's head came up slowly. Wet and raggedly gasping, his black hair hung in sodden snakes, dripping into his cup. Kate fought the compulsion to surge forward, to tend the deep abrasion across his forehead; one eye was puffed half-closed and was beginning to blacken.

"They overran us, sir."

Jack scowled. "The crew?"

"No, _Señor_." Moya paused to take another drink of stew broth, heavily laced with rum, by the smell. He closed his eyes in appreciation of its restorative powers. "The cargo… the people aboard, sir."

Jack sat back on his heels, his scowl deepening. "How?"

Moya shakily lifted one shoulder, shrugging, befuddled. "Sheer numbers," he replied flatly. "We'd no more than launched the boats, when they jumped us—the crew and us, alike." He shook his head, still dazed. "_Intentábamos solamente ayudar._ We told them that the _Capitán_ would see them safe. We told them as much, but…" His voice faded in confusion.

"Scared people do drastic things," Jack said philosophically. "Perhaps they had been lied to, once too many."

Moya shuddered. "_Era horrible, Señor._ We never had a chance. They just started bludgeoning anyone they in their way, with anything they could get their hands on."

"Where's Niemenin, Soo and Shalken?" Gibbs asked over Jack's shoulder, having wedged his way through the crowd.

Moya straightened, in an attempt to come to attention, but slumped, lacking the strength. "Gone,_ Señor_. They were the first to go. Shalken and I managed to hide for a bit, until they were busy with the boats, and then we jumped."

"And Shalken?"

"Couldn't swim,_ Capitán_." He looked truly shaken over that point. "Why did he jump if the couldn't swim? I tried, sir," he beseeched Jack and Gibbs. "I really tried, but he just… he… he just slipped away."

Jack gave Moya's shoulder another encouraging squeeze. "You did your best. That's all any man can do."

The words from his captain seemed to ease Moya as he took another drink. "It was chaos," he said, rolling his eyes closed. "They swarmed the boats, swamped them before they could even get under way. So many jumped…" He gulped, shaking his head. "Most could not swim, either. For some of them, I think it was because they were so hungry. Probably, too weak from not eating. We saw them fed, _Capitán_, but they'd had blessed little for weeks."

He lifted his head, to shoot a recriminating look over his shoulder at the _Clothilde's_ distant, dark silhouette. "She is a ghost ship, now, sir." His voice tightened to a bare whisper. "There is no one left."

"It was a grand effort," Jack announced, his grip on Moya's shoulder tightening. "That was a murderous long swim; not many could manage, especially in this wind."

Moya began to shake harder. "I saw them, in the dark, _Capitán_ … the boats. Great hands came up out of the water, and took them…" His voice caught as he choked.

From the corner of her eye, Kate saw several of those standing around, make horned signs with their fingers, turning their heads to repeatedly spit, Gibbs included. Jack looked away for a moment, assessing the Spaniard's tale, then came back with a consoling smile.

"It was dark, Moya. The mind sees all sorts of things." Jack rose slowly, looking to the man's fellow shipmates. "See to him."

Jack moved away, taking Gibbs with him. He looked over his shoulder at the _Clothilde_ and shook his head.

"It's the least I'd do, if I were in those poor buggers position," Jack said under his breath, glancing back at the shivering crewman. "Have any of them been seen?" Jack looked a little disappointed, but not surprised when Gibbs shook his head. "Probably afraid to show their faces. Understandable, for certain. If any, of them do show, be sure to offer whatever assistance we might, food and a weapon, if nothing else… so long as they aren't going to turn it against us."

Nodding, Jack set Gibbs on his way then took Kate with him as he turned in the opposite direction.

"Great hands'?" Kate echoed after they were out of earshot.

Smiling mirthlessly, Jack glanced at the sodden pirate. "Could have been most anything: people in the water, grabbing for the gunwale, another overturned boat bumping into them. I've seen turtles, porpoise, salt crocs and sea cows inadvertently come up under a boat, and everyone swore it was the daughter of Neptune, sent to fetch to their eternal reward."

"It would seem the spirit explanation is carrying more weight, than any of those explanations," Kate observed, watching several of the men executing more hex signs and other protective rituals.

"Aye, well, certainly makes for a much more interesting life, doesn't it?" Jack sighed ruefully.

Leaving the shore, they headed up the gradual slope, intersecting the path that interconnected the house and buildings. Deep in thought, Jack turned one way, as Kate veered off toward the house.

"I'll go check in the house and see if I can find…" she began, calling back to him.

Lunging, Jack grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.

"I just want to find something to take care of Moya's head," she explained to his questioning glare.

"You are not going anywhere alone," Jack replied evenly, "most of all _that_ house, no more than you are to go anywhere else alone."

Kate was touched by his protectiveness, but she reared at being restricted.

"And what if I have to go answer the call of nature?" she challenged, crossing her arms.

"Then we'll be doing it together." One corner of his mouth quivered, either with a smile or frustration. "Togetherness can come in many forms, _darling._ Mind your aim, as I'll be minding mine."

And so, again he had is little revenge, once again, his point made.

"Cap'n!"

"Now what!" muttered Jack under his breath, then spun to Chin displaying a gratuitous smile. "Yes, Mr. Chin, how can I possibly be of service to you, on such a fine mid-morning?"

"There be someone you should meet."

The broad Chinaman and Shanahan, a wiry Irishman, bracketed two people. One was a man, with one of those faces that defied age assignment, yet gave an overall impression of middle age. Not young, to be sure, he was, by no means elderly, either. As he walked toward them, he possessed the easy movement of a person unhindered by age, the ravages of heavy labor, or hard living. His hand rested on the shoulder of a young girl, not quite in her teens, with the same oval face and coarse, blue-black hair as he, but waif thin. Their clothing was worn and muddied, with a wide-eyed, haunted look as they glanced apprehensively from one pirate to the next.

"This is the Captain," Chin informed, directing the man's attention toward Jack.

The man stiffened and swept a mannerly bow. He elbowed the girl, causing her to jump, startled, breaking her stunned stare at Jack. Fear moving in her eyes, she bobbed a shaky curtsy.

"My name is Baqi Rahal," announced the man, in clipped English. He nodded toward the girl. "This is Samira, my daughter."

Tawny-skinned and darker featured than Jack, the man certainly was not Western, although his features made it difficult to be certain his exact heritage. Kate's experience with slaves had not been extensive, but his accent struck her as far different from any other Africans that she had heard. In truth, his speech harkened to the voices she had heard while visiting the _Griselle_: Arabic.

"Captain Jack Sparrow, " Jack announced, offering only a cursory nod. " And Mrs. Harper," he added, belatedly. "Do you two… belong here?"

"Yes," Rahal nodded solemnly. "I've served here for many years; my daughter was born here."

Jack nodded with only the barest level of interest, focused on what he considered a far more important point. "And where might we find your illustrious master?"

"Monsieur Perrineau?" Rahal hesitated, looking away. "He's… gone."

"Gone?" echoed Jack. "Gone, as in, to the other side of the island? Gone, as in on holiday? Gone, where?"

"Gone, sir." Rahal quailed slightly at Jack's barrage, but then lifted his chin and met Jack's look directly. "I was his manservant for some twenty years, sir." He paused, stiffening a bit more. "He's gone."

Rahal responded with an air that struck Kate as a bit out of the ordinary for a manservant. Granted, no one there was his superior; he was beholding to none. Yet, most who had lived in servitude, knew the importance of deference. His demeanor certainly was not that of one who had been owned. And yet, Kate was painfully aware of how quickly one's fortunes could change. She had seen her husband go from being a member of one of the preeminent ruling families of the Highlands, and laird of his own estate, one day, to imprisoned and transported, and sold into bondage, virtually the next. It could happen to anyone… too easily.

Kate risked a glance toward Jack, and found that he was of much the same mind. He was noticing their clothing: it was well worn, but definitely of a better quality than the standard homespun, unless the Perrineau's maintained higher standards for their servants than most. Their shoes were gone, but their bare feet were only dusty. They had been walking but in grass, or undergrowth, not riverbanks or paths worn down to dirt. All, or any, of it could just be a coincidence. Life dealt all sorts of odd blows to anyone, at anytime.

Jack frowned, surveying the two. "You two look like bloody hell! Where did you come from?"

"Up on the hill," Rahal answered quickly, making a vague gesture toward the forested hills along the shoreline. "We have a… place, there." His reluctance to reveal much more was evident.

Kate slid a cautious look toward the girl. Lighter-skinned than her father, she carried herself with the same reserved air. At the moment, her head was down, as she squirmed uncomfortably under the stares of the men encircling them. Kate had to remind herself of how foreign and intimidating it must be; they were pirates, a fearsome lot to those unfamiliar. When the girl finally did look up, it was with a firm jaw and a direct eye.

The child was thin, but with the kind of lankiness that came with youth; not yet blooming with womanhood, her shoulders and hips were still narrow. She was gaunt about the cheeks, and had a hungry look, but from short-term hunger. Youth always was the first to show the signs of prolonged starvation that was typical of servitude. Neither she, nor her father, showed any indications of such deprivation. On the other hand, if they had been house servants, they might have been better kept than those in the fields.

Apparently having already used up his quota for the day, Jack's patience was waning fast. He bit back one remark, and then took a breath. As Jack struggled to compose himself, Kate saw both of the new arrivals glance longingly toward the cooking fires. The man's hand tightened on his daughter's in silent warning.

"If you have a place up on the hill, how did you manage to come down here?" Kate finally asked, providing Jack with a little more time to collect his thoughts.

Samira swallowed. Only then, did Kate realize the two were salivating, leaning toward the cooking pots as the scent of food wafted past on the stiff breeze.

"We smelled your fires," Rahal replied.

Of course! Scared to death of pirates, there was only one motivation that could force someone from hiding: hunger. With the smell of food blowing on the wind, a hungry person would brave any peril. Rahal's excuse, that it was the fires that brought them down, didn't ring true, but pride probably precluded him from admitting to anything else.

"Well, then, please, come join us, if you're hungry," Kate offered, gently guiding the girl with a hand at her back. "If the noon meal isn't prepared, I'm sure we can find you something to eat."

A camp kitchen—a loose term for a hearth under a thatched roof, with several rows of crude tables and benches sitting on a hard-packed dirt floor—had been set up in what had been the cooking area for the slaves and other field workers, in the shade of a vast live oak. The tabletops were scattered with an odd contrast of candelabras, china and silver service, amid the wooden trenchers and disreputable, bent metal implements that would have been too flattering to call a fork or spoon.

As Kate had forecast, the noon meal wasn't ready, but there were still some of the salmagundi from that morning, which the two fell upon with relish. Jack stood back, sympathetic, yet taken. He slid onto the bench next to Rahal, narrowing one eye while the two ate.

The man felt Jack's gaze and paused eating, looking away toward the harbor. "I see the _Clothilde_ came in." He said it conversationally, but there was a glimmer of more than just passing interest.

"Then you would have seen that we towed her in," Jack pointed out mildly, feigning his own level of disinterest.

The look on Rahal's face indicated that he hadn't. It struck Kate as odd; their current hideout was directly above the bay, and would have provided a panoramic view of the ships' arrival. Of course, the business of hiding could have been distraction.

"Where's Captain Barker?" As much as he was trying to avoid it, Rahal's interest was much more piqued on that point.

"You know of Benefit Barker?"

Rahal handled his spoon with long, smooth, callous-free fingers. When he had pointed earlier, there had been fresh blisters visible on his palms. A manservant wouldn't be accustomed to physical labor, but it was a curiosity as to what he would have been doing that was so physically unfamiliar and demanding.

Rahal swallowed, nodding. "He's been coming here for some time."

Jack dropped his head, sliding a sidelong glance at Kate from under his brows, before lifting it again. He already knew how this next interchange of information was going to be received. "Captain Barker met an untimely demise, day before yesterday."

"You're pirates, aren't you?" The question held an edge of thinly veiled disdain. It appeared that one point explained Barker's death.

"Aye," Jack began slowly, summoning his patience. "We're pirates, but that has little bearing what so ever on Captain Barker. He took a long step off a short plank...on his own accord."

Nodding dispassionately, Rahal's face was unchanged as he took another bite, looking toward the harbor. A grating sound broke the tense silence, coming from Samira's bowl, as she hungrily scraped the bottom.

"Would you like some more?" Kate offered gently, seeking to make eye contact with the girl.

"You'll have to excuse my daughter," Rahal quickly intervened. "She does not speak."

Her father darted Samira a look, her head instantly dropping. Rahal's manner had been quite abrupt. Perhaps he was just an overly protective father. Kate bent down, looking to find Samira's eyes.

"Would you like some more?" she asked, even more gently than before.

Samira shifted an uneasy look toward her father, then nodded, barely perceptible, but emphatic. Kate handed the girl's bowl to one of the men who had been standing unnoticed at the end of the table, interestedly listening. Not wanting to miss a word, he quickly filled it bowl and returned, lest he miss anything.

"Might I inquire as to what the bloody hell happened around here?" That outburst suggested that Jack's patience was, indeed, wrung out.

The only response was a blank look from Rahal. Perturbed, to say the least, Jack pressed further.

"Except for you two, there doesn't appear to be another living soul on this island, mate, man, nor beast. Now, call me daft, but by the look of things," he went on, waving a hand in a general indication of their surroundings, "there is every reason to believe there were a good number of people here before—and now, they're gone. Where?"

A punctuating stare prompted Rahal to look skyward in response. "Them."

"Them?" Jack's skepticism was apparent.

"Them," Rahal confirmed. "Beings."

"Beings?" Jack echoed. All of the pirates that had gathered around the table stiffened, leaning closer with a new interest. "Where, pray tell, did these _beings_ come from?"

"From that ship, the _Hersilia,_" Rahal said, nodding toward the deserted ship resting off the far point. "It wrecked in the night, about a year ago. We thought nothing, at first. Then, slowly, we noticed the game disappearing. Soon, there were no squirrels, or birds or… anything. Then, the chickens and the animals…the livestock began disappearing." He paused, his dark face clouding with his recollections. "There would be sounds… screams in the night. The next morning, someone, or something, would always be missing."

"What are these… beings," Jack asked cautiously. "What do they look like?"

"Don't know, exactly," Rahal said simply. "No one that has ever seen them has survived."

"Then how…"

"They come in the night, from where the dark and shadows meet," Rahal began, with a steady, ominous sound. "Not of the earth, but not of the air, either. They are delivered on the winds of the night, blowing ill for anyone who dares to breathe it. They leave no tracks, but the ground will be stirred where they have tread."

A chill crawled up Kate's back, as she recalled the dirt both in the springhouse that morning, and in the clearing, just a while ago. Jack sat back, the same thoughts crossing his face.

"What happened to everyone aboard the ship, the captain, and the crew?" Jack inquired, still skeptical, but willing to follow along.

"Gone." Rahal said it with the same simplicity as he had delivered every other shred of information. "Gone, like everyone else."

As her father talked, Kate had been observing Samira's bent head, wondering how long it had been since the girl had spoken. It seemed a bit too bold, to just ask outright, if it she had been born that way, or a recent development. The latter had to have been the case; the girl held herself with the attitude of someone who had something to say, something strikingly unnatural to a person who had never spoken.

"How have you been living?" Kate asked.

"Captain Barker was to have been bringing stores; there are few left. During the day, we fish or pick berries...and collect firewood. Not much else remains."

Jack slipped Kate a glance from the corner of his eye, on questioning brow lifting a fraction. Kate barely lifted a shoulder and let it fall, in agreement. Something wasn't right; something didn't ring true, regarding either Rahal and his daughter, or the story he was telling, but neither she nor Jack could pinpoint what. Kate readily yielded to Jack's instincts. They had served him well enough to keep him alive for over twenty years at sea, thirteen of those as a pirate. She fancied the odds.

"And what do you do at night?" Kate pressed. "How have you managed for so long?"

"They fear fire," Rahal explained. "The cave is very small; a we set a fire at the mouth. They know we are there; we can hear them, but the fire keeps them at bay."

Slapping a hand on his thigh, declaring the meeting at an end, Jack rose slowly, casting a look around at the crew, who had gathered slowly to hear Rahal's tale. Turning his attention toward the silhouette of the marooned ship, he tipped his head, considering.

"You said they—these things—arrived after that ship?"

"That's how it seemed. Monsieur went out there. There was nothing there."

"Well, we shall see shan't we? Master Gibbs!" Jack called as he struck out for shore and the longboats.

"I'm sure there's nothing out there," Rahal repeated, growing more insistent. "Monsieur would have had anything of value removed, _long_ before now. It's a long trip, and dangerous waters… for _nothing_."

Jack halted in mid-step, frowning as he gave Rahal a long look then turned to Gibbs. "Get the work details under way. And then, we're going to take a little gander."

"Most certainly, there is _nothing_ out there," Rahal called after the both of them.

Rahal seemed anxious about anyone visiting the ship. Judging by the look on Jack's face, he was carrying the same impression, which rendered him even more determined to see it.

"The wreck, sir?" Gibbs queried, tight on Jack's heels.

"Are you aware of another one about, Master Gibbs?" Jack shot back over his shoulder, not slowing.

"Like he said," Gibbs stammered, his eyes rolling anxiously. "Seems likely scavengers would 'o cleared out anythin' of value by now."

Jack's shoulders hunched as he stopped and spun back around on Gibbs. "Well, we won't know that, until we get out there, and have a look see, now will we?"


	10. Chapter 10: Abandoned

10

_Treasured Treasures_

Chapter Ten:

Abandoned

As the longboats were loaded, Jack turned to find Kate standing expectantly at the water's edge behind him. He began to file a protest, but then shook his head, darkly muttering as he scooped her up and splashed out to the boat. Uncertain as to what lay ahead, Jack had ordered two boats, and a full contingency for the landing party, making a total of twelve between the two craft.

"Place is getting eerier by the minute—and what with needing _extra_ protection…" he grumbled, clambering over the gunwale, his implication hanging in the air as he Kate slid an accusing look. She returned it with her own complacent, wide-eyed gaze; saying anything would have only opened a dialogue, which she never could have won.

The wreck sat on a point at the far end of Bienveillant's bay. By virtue of the undulating shore, it would have been a long walk; angling across the water shortened the journey by a considerable measure. The wind still hadn't abated, but by staying within the island's windbreak, the bay's rough water was markedly smoother, and hence, easier going on those manning the oars. Like old maid aunts, the _Black Pearl_, from a distance, and the _Clothilde_, sat quietly rocking, overseeing the passage of the two lesser craft.

The wind brought the first warning that something was amiss, the putrid smell of corrupted flesh riding the air in varying degrees of repulsiveness. Muffled coughs came from the passengers of both vessels. As it was, the chop of the water hid a grisly surprise. What had looked like white caps from a distance, proved to be bodies bobbing in the surf; the witless victims of the _Clothilde._

Death palled the air, threatening to strangle anyone that dared to breath it, extirpating any life that infringed upon its territory. Bodies, black, white and brown, all equal in death, bobbed in a macabre tide. Bile rose in Kate's throat at the sight of the defiled bodies, some moving with more animation than might be accounted for by waves and wind. They passed near enough one that the boat's wake caused it to roll slightly, the water roiling at the tender underside, a teaming swarm of silvery-backed of fish greedily tearing at it. It was grim proof that the sea was more than willing to receive any donations to the demanding appetites of its scavengers; sharks, crabs and fish would all have their turns at the bounty. In every cloud, there was a silver lining.

Kate dropped her head, trying to look away. She had seen death's face before, but to have it staring back with sightless eyes was too much to bear. Closing her eyes blocked the view, but she couldn't block out the dull thuds and rubbing sounds of the bodies bumping against the hull of the longboat, in spite of the oarsmen carefully dipping their oars between the bodies to avoid them.

"I had no idea," Jack murmured. As hardened as he was to death and destruction, he was still aghast at the sight. His hand sought hers between them, where she clutched the edge of the wooden seat, and squeezed. "We'll start a detail as soon as we've returned."

Leaving the horror behind, they drew closer to the wreck. The stillness of the _Hersilia_ was the most striking. There was a perpetual motion about ships, an omnipresent movement. It seemed to stem from the fact that moving was what they were made for, designed to go before the wind. And they did it well, many, such as the _Black Pearl_, looked to still be under way, even as they sat at anchor.

Moored or anchored, ships still moved, kept alive by the gentle rise and fall of the harbor's swells, listing to the wind pressing on their bare spars. Whether under sail or secured, Kate had come to rely on that motion when laying in her bunk, to lull her to sleep, the _Pearl's_ silent message that all was well.

A grounded ship was as pitiful, and helpless, as a grounded bird. A dark hulk against the azure and cerulean of her surroundings, the _Hersilia_ now sat uncharacteristically still. A frozen, lifeless hulk, her yards spread in distress, begging for help, pleading for someone to end her misery. With a single flush deck, compared to the _Black Pearl_, she was straight and sleek, her gunports gaping eyeholes as sightless as those of a skeleton.

Shredded and tattered, the _Hersilia's_ sails wisped like widow's weeds in the rigging. To the idle eye, the ship almost appeared still under sail, heeled over as she was. The tragedy was that she was leaning into the wind, the exact opposite, making the ship's predicament that much more tragic.

Jack felt it; Kate could see it in the tip of his head and the tempo his fingers drummed on his belts. Everyone felt it to some degree or another, voices hushing as they neared. Any entity destined to be free, divested of its birthright was a wretched sight; for Jack, the stranded ship hit too close to his soul. At one point, he looked away, with haunted eyes that were unable to bear any further witness. For his own personal tastes, maybe he had seen it one time too many.

The ship's helplessness was what Kate felt the most, trapped, held against her will, unable to escape. She shuddered at the memories, well aware that it was an irrational reaction. But it was a visceral one, nonetheless, that knotted her stomach and made her palms grow damp.

As the longboats neared the derelict, the scale of what they were about to embark upon became more evident to Kate. In the lee of the very point that had claimed the ship's life, the water laid flat, allowing the longboats to easily lie alongside. By the time they arrived, the tide was in, delivering the boats higher against the hull, but the deck was still a blessedly long way. Kate sat next to Jack, tilting her head back to peer up at the looming ship.

"This isn't going to be easy."

Jack had only voiced what Kate was thinking, but still she ruffled at having her shortcomings pointed out.

"Just get me high enough to grab something," she said, evenly.

"It's nothing personal, luv." Jack patted her arm, flashing one of those smiles meant to charm. "It's a bloody difficult climb for anyone."

He used the point of his hat to indicate the next longboat. With a well-practiced skill, the men were forming a human ladder, the tall and strong on the bottom, the smallest and most agile on top, with Marty the last to scamper up. Clutching and scrabbling, he finally managed to seize a rope swinging in the wind from a yardarm, and slithered up into the chain plates, disappearing over the gunwale. A landing net was soon flung over the side, but still fell several feet short of the waiting boats.

"I can climb up like they are," Kate offered. "I've done it before."

"And have every one of those louts' head up your skirts? I rather doubt it," Jack sputtered; a sharp swipe of the hand signaling the subject was closed.

The shifting of weight as they prepared to depart set the boat rocking erratically. Jack and the other men moved with cat-like agility in the boar, maneuvering like most would walk to the market. Feeling grossly awkward, Kate tucked her hem into the waistband, and slipped her foot into Jack's interlaced fingers. With a grunt of effort on his part, she was propelled upward.

Her first grab for the netting missed, but hands from above caught her and drug her up until she was finally able to gain a hold, she began to inch her own way. The net seemed to possess a mind of its own, ducking and twisting away from her grasp, and yet, an uncanny knack for reaching out to snag either the sword at her side, pistol at her waist, or tangling in her shift, under her feet. Jack scaled the net with maddening ease, first above, and then below her, helping with either a foot or a hand. At one point, he paused, hovering at eye level, grinning with admiration.

"Bloody few women could manage this one, luv!"

"Can we talk later regarding the wisdom of breeches?" she panted, wrenching the hilt of her sword free.

He laughed, clearly thinking that she was jesting. She wasn't. "Not bloody likely." And then he disappeared overhead.

Arms burning, the rough rope tearing at her hands, and swearing through gritted teeth, Kate crept upward. At last, hands came over the rail, grasping to pull her the final few feet, Jack's steady arm hooking under hers. In one fluid effort, he lifted her over the rail, and deposited her neatly on the deck, managing somehow to keep her skirts discretely tucked, at all times.

A quick sweeping gesture from Jack scattered the men throughout the ship, in search of anything of significance, or value, while Kate, Gibbs, and he made their way aft.

Ravaged by exposure, the decks were in disarray, cluttered with sail fragments, lines, broken yards, amid scattered kegs and crates. The lifeboat covers were in rags. Some of the damage could have been as a result of ransacking, but it was difficult to separate one cause from another. Seagulls had once used the ship as a roost, their droppings crusting long stretches.

The decks were a tarry mess, a testimonial to why they needed scrubbing every morning. Expanding and contracting, warming and cooling with the heat of the day, the planks had squeezed out the tar and oakum stuffed in between to kept the ship watertight, the black goo oozing at every seam, tugging at their shoes at every step.

"'Pears to have been a fine ship," observed Gibbs with not a little pained admiration. He wasn't above suffering under the same grief as everyone else.

"Aye, Mr. Gibbs." Jack ran a gentle hand along the curve of the helm, his fingers tracing the shapes of the spokes of the wheel. "A fine ship, indeed, cut down in her prime."

The wind stiffened, stirring the tails of Jack's scarf at his knees, the tattered sails overhead flapping a codeless tattoo.

"Notice somethin' a might odd, Cap'n?" Gibbs arched a dramatic brow as he slid several meaningful looks up and down the length of the ship. "Nothin's lashed."

"Indeed." Jack nodded, taking in Gibbs' observations.

Kate looked between the two men, hoping for an explanation of the significance of that observation. Jack lifted one hand, yielding to Gibbs.

"If they was expectin' a storm, the likes of which were able to drop a ship on a reef, they woulda been preparin', lashin' down what they may, and stowin' the rest below, for convenience and saftey's sake."

"Maybe whoever came out here before, took all that," Kate suggested

"Highly unlikely," Jack put in. "Scavengers don't usually worry about stowing cargo nets or ropes before they leave."

Of course, Jack was correct: there was not a foot of rope or wayward nets left lying about.

"Get below," Jack told Gibbs. "See what matters are down there."

Gibbs nodded and quickly strode away, summoning those crewmen still about with a curt wave.

The companionway to the captain's quarters was aft of the helm, a narrow stairway that pitched steeply. Jack trundled down without a second thought or pause. The combination of the angle of the steps, and the slant of the ship, was disorienting, forcing Kate to hang on to the manropes.

Smaller than the _Pearl's_ quarters by a considerable margin, the room felt close and stuffy, dust motes swirling in the gloom at their every step. By some miracle, the gallery windows remained intact, but were closed. In spite of the stiff breeze outside, the air inside hung heavy with damp and must, wood gone wet far too long, old sweat, and another odor that bordered on offensive.

"What is that?" Kate's query was muffled, her hand pressed to her nose as she struggled to push open a window.

"Damned if I know," was Jack's only reply as he offered a hand, grunting as he gave the windows a final push.

Air rushed through the room like a great exhale, a shuddering moan echoing from deep within the hull, as if the ship had been holding her breath, waiting. Running a hand along her arm to erase the rising gooseflesh, Kate looked to see if Jack had heard it. He had, but was desperately trying not to show it, looking cautiously around when he thought she wasn't looking.

They separated and went their own ways, neither knowing exactly what he or she were looking for, but confident they would know it when they found it. There was no way of knowing exactly what had been taken, but it was reasonable to assume that there had been the usual stuffs of day-to-day living: lamps, candle sconces, navigational implements, weapons, books, rugs, bottles, clothing, mirrors, pitchers and bowls were all gone missing. By pirate standards, the destruction had been minor: furniture overturned, papers scattered, inkwells spilled, shelves swept clear and drawers and chests gaping open, empty.

Jack made a quiet sound of discovery, and reached up between the overhead beams, crammed with rolled charts. Pulling one down, he opened one corner.

"Bloody child's work," he muttered. Screwing his face in disgust, he released the corner, the map snapping closed. Selecting another, he made a guttural noise, holding it away by two fingers. "With charts such as these, no wonder they ran aground."

Kate turned her head to hide her smile. Jack's charts were highly prized works of art, and was obviously contemptuous of anything he considered beneath his standards.

As Jack continued to poke about the chart table and desk, Kate maneuvered around the perimeter of the room, bracing against anything solid to help maintain her balance. Through on narrow, louvered door, she discovered the sleeping quarters. Smelling heavily of pipe smoke and male occupation, the room was as churned as the other. There had been no sign of pipes or tobacco in the salon; she added that to the mental list of items taken.

With some effort, she forced open another door off the salon, and found a passageway that led past several cabins. Stiff-arming the bulkhead, she slowly made her way from one room to another. Some doors were closed, and refused to budge after months of disuse and damp. To her surprise, the third door slid moved readily under her hand. Hesitating, she suddenly felt like a little girl, her mind running rampant with imagined frights from ghost stories her brothers had told her while hidden under blankets as children. Realizing only then that she had been holding her breath, she blew a shaky exhale.

Kate stopped, frozen by a sound that emanated from somewhere—seemingly everywhere—in the ship, a long, drawn out moaning, as if the ship was drawing another breath.

"Get 'hold of yourself, Mackenzie," she muttered aloud, using the sound of her own voice to help eradicate the rampant musings of her mind. "It's only the wind through the cracks."

It seemed sound enough logic, but did little to quell her apprehensions.

Cursing her timidity, Kate steeled her nerve, and slid the door aside.

As predicted, it was a cabin, dark, except for the thin band of light squeezing through the half-opened port. Smaller than the quarters on the _Pearl_, the cramped space offered few amenities: berths built into the bulkheads, thin, worn blankets on dingy mattresses, a wall sconce, and a few sparse personal belongings. Down the passage a little further, she came upon another cabin door already open, the room proving to be much the same. A small board had been mounted between the bunks served as a writing desk, where an ink well sat next to a forgotten journal, a shirt and hat tossed on one bunk, and a small, worn-almost-to-the-point-of-exhaustion rag doll posed in one corner.

A crawling chill radiated from the base of her spine at the thought of intruding on lives past, infringing on their privacy. Desolation saturated the ship. Now she understood more clearly, the spirit of the _Pearl_—or the _Griselle_, for that matter. It came not from the frame and timbers, but was imparted by the humanity of her crew and captain. Deserted, empty and abandoned, any vestiges of humanity were gone, leaving the ship bereft.

Kate made her way back to where she had left Jack. Seated at the captain's desk, he leisurely propped his head on one hand, as he turned the pages of a well-worn book, the light from the window washing in a golden band across his arms and table.

"Captain's log," he explained, at her inquiry. His mouth was skewed out of shape by his palm. "Couldn't spell worth a lick, but was faithful to his entries, I'll give him that. Reads like a typical Atlantic crossing. Their last landfall was Essaouira, where they took on four passengers. Headings were 235, 240, or there abouts, for the most part. Doldrums, storms… the usual."

"So, she came across from Africa?"

Under the backdrop of the wind, the soft rustling of the pages filling the room as Kate idly continued to poke about.

"Morocco, actually. Stands to reason; nearly a straight run." He paused, flipping through the pages. "Nothing, until here," he said, stabbing a finger at one entry. "There was a to-do, between one of the passengers and some of the crew."

"What about?"

Jack's mouth took a downward turn. "Our dear, missing captain didn't labor over details. And then, the next day," he went on. He turned the page, drawing his finger down over the writing, until he found the passage he sought. "Then the next day, _'a crewman, common seaman, has gone missing_.'"

"'_Common seaman_?'"

"Apparently the good Captain spared himself the drudgery of learning the names of his men, either."

It seemed unnatural. Everyone knew everyone on the _Black Pearl_, and no crewman went unnoticed by her captain, sometimes to their dismay. Several times Kate had witnessed one of them dodging about the decks, trying to avoid Jack on one of his more vociferous days, and, woe unto the one who drew his attention through misdeed. And yet, Jack carried a catalog in his head of every sailor: name, origins, previous ships served along with the captain's name, specialty, current duty assignment, whether his skills were better with sword or pistol, sped up the ratlines or quality of vision on the lookout. A captain that couldn't name a deceased member of his ship had to have been doubly affronting.

"Didn't the captain have to have entered the name of the deceased in the roster?"

Jack looked up, frowning then brightened. "Oh, aye, in the roster. The log would be optional." Shaking his head, the corner of his mouth tucked in with dismay. "Although, you'd think he could, at least, give the poor chap some kind of a memorial."

Even though he held the faceless captain with high levels of disregard, Jack still had a air of reverence for the written word, the last legacy of a life—and the life of a ship, gone, never to live again. Kate glanced around the cabin. Her knowledge of ships was limited, but it seemed doubtful that, after sitting on its keel for a year or more, that it would ever be resurrected.

"Another one disappeared the next day," he went on, carefully turning the page. "And the next… and the next." His voice fell off, as the picture began to form.

"What would explain that?" Kate moved closer to where Jack sat, the margins of the room suddenly seeming too far away from him.

He shrugged, his jaw twisted sideways in thought. "Murdering fiend. Someone with a grudge… sore loser in a bet… or someone who just couldn't bear up anymore."

"You've seen that happen?"

"Any of it?" he asked. He wore a wary look, as if he were hoping she weren't asking what he thought she was asking. Resigned, he sighed. "Aye, a bit, but not all of it. Not personally, but you hear things. Long crossings can bring out the worst in anyone, even the most noble. If you've someone who's a bit off…"

The thought of being aboard a ship—an isolated island in an endless sea—with a deviant or predator on the loose was terrifying. But to be methodically stalked, to know someone was singling out one person from the rest, and then dispatching them, had to have been a horror.

The sun caught Jack's profile as he turned his head to look out the window, but his clouded eyes were seeing far past the nearby island and the waters. Briefly, he looked aged beyond his years, precluding Kate from inquiring further into those experiences.

He was right. Of course, he was right. Life at sea wasn't easy. It tested the mettle and fortitude of every seaman, every day, not only the physical battle against water and elements, but a personal struggle, inside one's head, that separated the wheat from the chafe. Many survived, and were the stronger for it, while others succumbed, in any number of ways: jumping ship, collapsing, fighting… or killing.

"'A bit off'? Three men disappearing in three days in a row."

Jack shook himself, returning to the room from wherever he had been. "Actually, four," he corrected, focusing his attention on the logbook. "No, five… ehh… six…"

"Sounds like a rampage," Kate said, leaning over his arm. "What's everyone else doing, in the meantime? I mean, aren't they trying to figure out who's doing this? A ship isn't that big. Surely someone saw something."

Jack squinted at the lettering. The lines of writing angled irregularly across the ink and water-stained pages. Even the logbook wasn't up to Jack's standards, another source of his scorn. She had seen his logbook many times, as he made his entries in a florid hand with precision and timeliness, as neat yet artistic as his charts.

"Ah! Listen to this," Jack announced, sitting higher, his finger tracing the lines of angular writing: "_'We are being victimized, a terror, unseen, that is devouring us, one by one, night by night. We have beseeched the keeper, but he claims_…" His eyes rolled up at Kate. "That's it. It ends."

The sudden need for contact with another living person, Kate leaned her hips against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around herself.

"It can't just end," she said, not nearly as firmly as she had intended. "Not like that; there has to be something more."

"No." He flipped through several blank pages as proof. "Nothing. The last entry was nearly…" He paused as he rifled back. "Nearly a year ago."

Kate sat on the edge of the desk, her legs still in contact with Jack, the live warmth of a welcome comfort. "Where do you suppose everyone went? It's like the plantation all over again. Where is everyone?"

Pressing his lips together, Jack shrugged, in an effort to be glib. "Once they bottomed out, probably went ashore, as soon as they realized they weren't going anywhere else anymore."

"So, where are they on the island? Wouldn't they have gone to the house?"

He nodded in vague agreement. "I suppose...not necessarily…but, maybe…"

"And if they did go ashore, wouldn't they have used the landing nets?"

Reluctantly, he conceded to her point. "Once aground, abandoning ship isn't an orderly business." Kate thought she heard the voice of experience. "The nets would be the fastest means to get the most men away."

"Then, why were the nets still stowed?"

"_And_ the longboats," he added, his brows arching up under the edge of his scarf.

"Cap'n!"

"Yes, Mr. Stevens?" Jack leaned back in order to see the crewman standing in the passage doorway.

"Mr. Gibbs says, as ye should come down t' the hold."

Kate shuddered. The ship was eerie enough topside; the thought of going into its bowels of the ship made her stomach plummet. But, the thought of being left alone above decks, while everyone else went below, was even less appealing.

Jack seemed of the same mind, taking her by the arm to follow Stevens.


	11. Chapter 11: Into the Bowels

**Chapter Eleven: Into the Bowels**

**Stevens** led out the very passageway Kate had been exploring. Had she gone further, she would have arrived at the gun deck, and crew's living quarters, but it was a circuitous route, twisting and turning, squeezing past overturned stores, weaving between the slings. Normally, they would have been stowed the moment the occupant rose, but now many still hung, some dangling one-ended, swaying in the wind like clusters of cocoons. Disorder was everywhere; the space was in shambles, beyond that which could be attributed to storm or pilferage. The tables, customarily suspended over the backs of the guns, to provide eating space, were toppled, off-angle in their rope harnesses. The hatch grates, above and below, sat askew, while barrels, kegs, crates, bags and all manner of daily life were tipped and scattered.

Asaid, Hassim and Bandai were busily fashioning makeshift torches from canvas strips cut from the slings, wrapped around anything stout enough—broken gaffing hooks, stool legs—then dipped in a bucket of tar. A struck flint lit them, a roiling cloud of black smoke trailing behind anyone who carried one. Jack seized one, while Stevens bore two more, and below they went.

Kate still carried the first impressions of the ship's gunports as eyes. That added to the sense of it breathing, led her to feel as if she was being led into the belly of the beast. The resemblance of the hull timbers to ribs didn't help matters any, the gurgling of long-stagnant seawater only exacerbating the image. She now had a new respect for Jonah and his tribulations.

The steps were treacherously slick with mold and damp, the last two submerged in water that came half way up Kate's shins, exploding with rot and decay, fouling every step. Shafts of light struggled down through the grates, dying almost instantly in the gloom. The water swirled up under her skirts, debris bumping her bare legs: shattered wood, fragments and bits unknown, with a sense of things in the murky, greenish-black water, brushing her ankles, and scuttling away.

The fetid, pervasive smell, overshadowing all others, harkened back to the rooms in the cellar, springhouse and clearing of that morning. Kate was already disoriented, but felt relatively sure Stevens was leading them astern. She longed for the _Pearl's_ hold; as much as she despised the place, it was a vision of Eden compared to this, and swore she would never complain again. Ahead, Jack moved with caution, but exuded a quiet confidence from which Kate tried to take heart.

The footing was hazardous, at best. Kate's progress was made by inching one foot forward at a time, gritting her teeth as she felt things below the surface being pushed aside. The black smoke from the torches diminished an already limited visibility, the air acrid with it. The glimmer of lights ahead gradually brightened as they wove their way between the smell moldering cargo—rotting bags of meal, pickled beef gone bad—fogged the air.

Gibbs and the remainder of the landing party, the water nearly to Marty's waist, were gathered in a far corner, their voices muffled by the dank surroundings.

"Thought ye should be seein' this, Cap'n."

Gibbs raised his chin, directing Jack's attention to a wooden crate. Nearly chest high, the box was an equal-sided square, with large corner protectors of heavily tooled bronze, gone nearly green, the reinforcing cross-braces ornately carved.

The water swirled around everyone's legs at any movement. As Jack stepped forward to inspect the box, it tugged at her skirts. Then something wrapped around her calf. Crying out, she jerked, and kicked to free herself. The sudden motion threw her off balance and she slipped, whatever it was around her ankle tightening.

Jack pitched his torch aside, hissing as it extinguished in the water, and lunged to catch Kate as she staggered, still shrieking and kicking, nearly going headlong into the water. A confusion of alarmed shouts collided with hers as the men dove to her aid. Their groping hands at her legs were even more startling, and she fought harder. Jack struggled to support her with one arm, while he felt through the murk. She felt a sharper tug at her leg, and she was finally free.

Dripping, Gibbs rose, victoriously clutching something sleek and glistening. It looked like an eel at first in the torchlight, but proved to be nothing more than a piece of cloth. Shredded and soaked, it was far too reminiscent of the piece they had found just that morning in the floor of the springhouse. Satisfied it was nothing more, Gibbs threw it off to the side in disgust, vigorously wiping his hands on his breeches.

Kate's face heated with embarrassment as everyone heaved a sigh of relief. She clamped her lips together, vowing that she would not allow the brimming tears to overflow.

"Are you all right?" Jack asked for the fourth time, patting her over in the absence of an answer.

Shouts came from the direction of the companionway. Asaid and the remainder of the landing party splashed through the hold, the glow of their torches glowing and bobbing amid the stacked and hanging cargo.

"We heard shouts, sir," Hassim explained, looking anxiously to see what the alarm might have been.

The light of their torches fell on the box. Gasping in shock, Asaid and Hassim stumbled backwards, the water sloshing at their knees as they feverishly began muttering something that sounded much like a prayer. The surrounding pirates looking on curiously, Gibbs stiffened, his eyes darting between the suddenly sweating crewman and the shattered crate.

"What is it, man?" demanded Gibbs. "What do you know of this?"

His face glistening in a nervous sweat, Asaid tried to speak, but words failed him. Caught between his fear of the box that was before him, and that of Gibbs and his captain combined, he finally found his voice. "It's the Seal of Da'ud," he breathed, the mere uttering of the name instilling terror in him.

Equally confused, Gibbs and Jack's faces fell at the same time.

"You'll have to give us more than that, mate." Jack's graveled voice reverberated off the moisture-laden bulkheads.

"_So'la_, the most lowly of the djinn, guardians to the gates of the hellhole of Hell." He spoke a bit quicker as he regained his confidence.

Jack rolled his eyes at Kate. "Why do I feel a story coming on? Well, out with it, man. Don't go thinking I'm enjoying standing to me knees in this slop."

"These," the Moor began, with a tremulous hand toward the markings, "are Seals of Da'ud. He was the to be born son of King Trif, of the Tamesna, north of the Rift, a mystical land of Northern Africa."

Asaid looked to Hassim, standing next to him, for affirmation, which came in the form of a stoic nod.

"And?" Jack coaxed.

"It's a bit of a long story, sir," said Asaid.

"The highlights then, if you will."

"The king's dying wish was that the body of his only son be delivered to the Gates of the Fifth Heaven, in the west, where he would be given life."

The wind stiffened outside, the shrouds vibrating in the wind, thrumming down through the body of the ship, amid the steady backdrop of waves lapping at her hull.

"Uh-huh, I see." Jack stared for a moment, then nodded agreeably. "Doesn't sound so bad." He flicked his hand several times, ridding himself of the wetness that streamed from his sleeve, darkening his shirt nearly to his armpit.

Gathering his resolve, Asiad closed his eyes, and went on. "He who delivers the body will be granted eternal life and wisdom."

"Sounding better all the time," Jack said, a relieved smile growing.

"And anyone who disturbs the body will be cursed, with a thousand torments." Asaid raised a shaky hand. "The seal has been broken. The body has been disturbed," he rasped.

Everyone reflexively fell away, Jack groping blindly behind him for Kate, in order to pull her closer behind him.

"It would appear that someone has chosen to ignore that bit of wisdom. But the damage's been already done, hasn't it?" Jack pointed out, glibly. "We're just the innocent bystanders… _long _after the fact."

"I don't know," Gibbs said slowly. His deep voice rumbled in the cavernous hollows. "'Tis a doomed ship we're upon."

"_Wrecked_ ship," Jack corrected. "A _wrecked_ ship, Gibbs, a marked and significant difference."

"Aye, and why did she wreck?" Gibbs challenged, allowing the suggestion to hang in the dank air. He loved nothing more than a good dose of drama, heavily spiced with superstition and hearsay. The two men locked stares, one daring the other to dispute his position. The lap of the torch flames sent shapeless, hunched shadows crawling up the surrounding cargo and hull. There was a rhythmic drip of water from their clothing, an aftermath of being half-immersed, when trying to rescue Kate from the 'attack' on her ankle.

Kate cautiously peered around into the interior of the crate. Scattered, loose packing half-floated, but for all intents and purposes, it was empty.

"So, the King put his son in this big box?" Kate inquired, breaking the stand-off.

"No, someone else did that, to protect it in its journeys," Asaid sniffed with disdain. "The Body of Da'ud is much smaller, and grander."

"How much smaller?"

Asaid shrugged at Kate's question, deferring to Hassim for help. None was forthcoming.

"Not sure, sir," he said finally, deflating in disappointment at not being able to provide all the answers. "The legend does not say."

"Legends," Jack sighed, with something between frustration and disgust.

"Can you read any of this?" Kate drug Asaid with her as she inched closer to the crate.

Time and darkness had taken its toll. The wood had been discolored by the long months of being semi-submerged, the writing obscured, obliterated in some places, by blue fungus and black-green mold.

"Only bits, sir." "Some—these here—are warnings, prayers and omens. These," Asaid went on, moving to an area of ornate scripts and swirls, "are old, probably a forgotten language."

"These over here look familiar." Kate pulled Asaid's torch closer as she bent to examine another spot bearing large circles filled with muddled scribbling. "I could swear I've seen these before. Do you have any idea what they are?"

Asiad gave his head a firm shake. "No, sir." His conviction seemed to belie a reluctance to admit to it, even if he did know.

"It looks like it's been smeared by something…"

"Mayhaps, from the water," Gibbs put in, eagerly inching forward as he became more caught up.

Curious, several more of the men leaned forward. As the light converged, the water became more illuminated. The look on Gibbs' face said it all: stunned and horrified. It wasn't black, or green… it was red, more to the side of brownish, but red nonetheless, too much like the floor of the cellar or springhouse, or the ground at the clearing.

Looking down at the sanguine soup, Kate gasped and staggered back, the splashing droplets going pinkish in the light. Everyone rose on their toes, as if by some miracle they could levitate or will themselves above it. There was no choice, but to stand in it… knowing.

Kate now knew the smell that had been so pervasive. It was death, sharp, shrouding everything in a miasmatic fog, pressing, weighing on every breath, threatening to drag down anyone who faltered. Diluted, by mold and stagnation, was the coppery tang of blood, and the cloying putrid of rotting flesh, no different than in the springhouse, the cellar or the clearing. Many of the stains on the wooden box took on a new and sobering significance.

"It would require a lot of… spillage," Gibbs began, meticulously avoiding the obvious, "to turn this much water into…that… color."

"A ship such as this would have a crew of forty, maybe fifty," Jack said. His hands twitched at his sides and in the air, wanting to lift Kate from the foulness, but with no real options.

"All killed… down here?" Gibbs gulped. It was an unimaginable prospect, but there were few other ways of explaining it.

"What the hell could have happened?"

The men shifted uneasily, only the white of their eyes visible as they exchanged worried looks.

"Mebbe they were brought down here… after they died."

"Doesn't make much sense," Jack said, still staring downward, as was everyone. "Over the side is the most common at sea. No reason to be storing them up."

"Then, were they killed down here?" Gibbs' face screwed with doubt.

"'…_one by one_…'" Kate said quietly.

Jack jerked, frowning as he turned toward her. "What?"

"The Captain's log, remember?" She closed her eyes with the effort of recalling. "It said, '… _one by one, night by night…'_ they were being taken.'"

"So," Gibbs began, closing one eye as doubt evolved into disbelief. "Someone killed 'em and brought 'em down here?"

"Not _someone_," Jack said ominously. "_Something_."

All eyes dropped to the box in renewed interest, as if they half-expected something to spring from the tumbled, sodden packing that might offer answers. None came. In unison, they raised their torches toward the beams overhead. Like the springhouse, the wood was splattered with an odd, dry glistening.

"Until they were all gone?" Kate echoed everyone's thoughts.

It was a staggering thought: one by one, a crew being taken, killed, until there was no one left, or not enough, at any rate, to manage the ship. Adrift, with no direction, she was seized in the grasp of the storm, and tossed aside.

The impact of what that meant would have a stronger impact on the men who stood around Kate. It showed in their faces. Black smoke from the burning tar was beginning to collect, and wisp about their shoulders, but the light was still strong enough to cast deep shadows across the hollows of their faces, their eyes skeletal black holes. A hush fell over them, as each man withdrew into his own thoughts, the popping sizzles of bits of cloth and tar dropping from the torches and into the water becoming more audible.

"And then she wrecked," Gibbs concluded, finalizing the scenario that everyone was running through their minds.

Jack's nose wrinkled. "Those beasties of Rahal's, he said they came from this ship…"

"And killed everyone…" Kate added. The chill that took her was from more than the fingers of wetness creeping up her skirts.

Some of the pirates quietly cleared their throats, stifling coughs; the air was growing thick with smoke and smell, and was beginning to affect everyone.

"Ate 'em's, what he said," Marty pointed out.

Jack swallowed hard, swaying slightly. "Bloody hell!"

"Yes," Gibbs murmured. "It probably was."

All things considered, grounded was a gentle demise, though some might argue how merciful. The ship could have just as easily been broached and swamped, slipping to the bottom without a trace. But she hadn't; she had landed, albeit ungracefully, so that her terrors could be unleashed on the next unsuspecting souls. They looked at the box with refreshed interest. Whatever it was, it seemed the cornerstone.

Kate angled her head, trying to see more clearly, the floating debris nudged her legs. "It almost looks like numbers, but this…"

Jack handily intercepted her hand, pulling it back. "Might not be the best of ideas to be touching, darling." The light had cast his eyes into the same black, lifeless holes.

Kate straightened, smiling a bit uncertainly. "You think it's haunted, or something?"

"We don't know… do we?" His gaze sharpened.

"Well, whatever it is," Gibbs began, holding his torch higher for a closer scrutiny. "It was done quick-like, and with violence. Wood's splintered to naught but shivers, _and_ it's empty."

The movement of the torch's light sent shifting shapes across the sodden wood, every grain or splinter casting exaggerated shadows.

Kate eyes widened. "I think I know where I've seen that before."

**Urgency** spurred Kate. Preoccupied with straining to remember exactly where she had seen the symbols, she forgot the hazardous footing as she turned. Her shoe skittered across the slimed, slanted planking. Arms arcing, she groped at the air, scrambling for her balance, teetering and reeling. Jack's arm hooked under hers, and righted her in one fluid, motion, holding her close, until she steadied.

"Where the bloody hell do you think you're going?" he seethed in her ear.

"I've seen those markings before…" she said, still breathless.

"Before _nothing_," Jack finished, cutting her off. "You're doing _nothing_ if it's to be by your onsies."

"But I was going…"

"Where?" he demanded, his eyes darting toward the obscure reaches. "Have you any idea how to get about on this ship?" He arched one brown expectantly as she stammered. "Ah-ha! I thought not. And yet, there you go," he went on, making little fluttering motions with his fingers, "not a care in the world, dashing off into who knows what…"

Kate silenced his protests by stilling his fingers with hers. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking." She looked briefly into the hold's gloom and realized her folly. "I'm sure I saw those symbols—or something like them—somewhere… here. Do you remember anything like that in the captain's cabin?"

Calmed by her acquiescence, Jack frowned, biting his lip. "No, don't think so."

"Then it had to have been in one of those cabins." She strained to recall. "Can you take me back to those?" Hopefully, if he wouldn't let her go alone, at least he would show her the way.

"Of course I can," he announced, rearing back, perturbed. "It's a ship!"

"Well, I just thought, if you've never been on it before…"

"It's a ship," he repeated evenly, giving her a withering look. "I'd be bloody daft, if I couldn't find me way about this hulk!"

Like a protective parent guiding a toddler taking its first steps, Jack ushered Kate from behind, sloshing step-for-step across the pitched hold. She managed to fall only once going up the steps, banging her knee on the edge. Once on the gun deck, Jack's grip remained firmly on her hand, as they wove their way aft, back through the abandoned slings, Jack's boots making sodden, squelching sounds, both of them leaving a dark trail of wetness. Striking down a passage, Jack pulled up short when it dead-ended in the galley, rather than the captain's cabin. Kate bit her lip, resisting the temptation as Jack reversed their path, retracing their circuitous path, crawling past overturned stores, back to the row of cabins.

The first cabin proved to be void of any bearing; the second was equally unfruitful. Trying one door, Jack coiled up to throw his shoulder into it.

"Never mind," said Kate, halting him in mid-motion. "If it was going to be that much effort, I didn't bother."

Nodding at her logic, the next two doors they passed were immobile, Kate's confidence waning with each one. As they crab-stepped down the angled hallway, her self-doubt was beginning to rear its ugly head as she began to seriously question if she had all been her imagination. Hovering at her elbow, Jack finally pulled up at the third. Her hopes soared at seeing that the door already stood open.

"Is that it?" he asked, gesturing inside.

Kate chewed the inside of her mouth, already worrying what would be her next step if this entire endeavor proved to be for naught. "It would have to be; it's the only one left."

Anxious, she pushed past Jack to step inside, and was summarily jerked back. Jack held her by the arm, hindering her long enough to allow a quick inspection inside.

"Go ahead." He gestured her in with a jerk of his head, but still eyed the room as if he expected something might be lurking.

Kate crept in, Jack shadowing each step, afraid she might disturb whatever it was that she was looking for—except she didn't know what that might be. The porthole hung half-open, allowing a spare shaft of light to spill across the floor, dust motes coiling up in ethereal swirls with their movement. Starting the corner where the rag doll still sat in repose, Kate methodically scanned the cramped space, mentally trying to retrace her movements. This was the cabin with the writing desk improvised between the bunks, a small stool shoved underneath, out of the way. On the desk laid a book.

"That's it!"

Having virtually overlooked the little book before, Kate carefully picked it up, an odd warmth radiating from it, as if it had been lying in the sun for a long period of time—except it hadn't. Barely larger than the flat of her hand, the leather bound binding was the worse for wear, the corners beginning to curl from the damp. She hadn't consciously realized that she had seen the markings burned into the leather cover, one, an ornate circle, along with a star and something resembling a sunburst. For its size, it was quite weighty, the pages thick vellum. Upon initial inspection, nearly every page was crammed with writing, illustrations, and more symbols, many sections lost or obscured by tears, and water damage.

"What kind of writing is this?" she murmured, as her fingers traced the elaborate scripts and scrolls.

"Looks Arabic," Jack observed, peering over her shoulder. "Insufferable language; picked up blessed little of it, over the years. Thomas is far better at it, but 'course, he spent years on that side of the world." He took the book, inspecting the writing closer. "Looks near enough the same, although it can be bloody difficult to know."

"Do you think Asaid or Hassim could read this?"

"Can't rightly say. Won't know, until we ask."

As they went out into the passage, Kate jerked back against Jack's grip, gasping as she pointed to the bulkhead.

"Look."

The bulkheads on both sides of the door were a jumble of symbols, hastily drawn in black, some smeared into a sooty blob. They both glanced toward the book Jack now held; many of the symbols on the cover were the same as those on the wall. Jack cautiously brushed a finger across one marking, rubbing two fingers together.

"Charcoal." He experimentally sniffed, then shrugged, slightly disappointed. "Hmm. Odd smelling wood, of some kind, but can't say what."

The shadowed walls, the dank and dark of the ship and the markings were beginning to trigger fogged, distant recollections of another place.

"I know I've seen these before," Kate said, knitting her brow in thought. She was beginning the feel the wear of the day.

Jack rolled a wary eye, his lip threatening to curl back. "Not again."

"I'm sure I have." The mental picture was forming, but with insufficient clarity.

"Really, darling. You're becoming delusional. No wonder, either," he added under his breath, shooting their surroundings with a loathsome look.


	12. Chapter 12: What Price Beauty?

**Chapter Twelve: What Price Beauty?**

**The** book in one hand and Kate's hand in the other, Jack steered them back down toward the gun deck, meeting Gibbs and the remainder of the crew as they mounted the hold companionway. The air on that deck was comparatively fresher than the hold, the gaping ports allowing for a breeze, but the smell of below had followed the men. They dripped a growing puddle of foul water as they stood waiting.

"Mr. Asaid or Hassim! Can either of you read?" It could have been an awkward question, but Jack had inclination toward social delicacy, at the moment.

Asaid stiffened to attention, as would any of the crew, when singled out by their captain. "I can, sir. My father was a scribe; he taught me."

"Well done. In that case, can you read this?" Jack unceremoniously shoved the journal at him, fanning the pages.

Swelling with importance, basking in the opportunity to be of added service to his superior, Asaid bent his head, scrutinizing. "This part here, sir, is unfamiliar. It's nothing I've seen before; probably a lost language."

"Seems to be a lot of that going around lately," Jack grumbled.

"Aye," Asaid mumbled, distracted. "But here, the notations along the margins…I can read some of this."

"Well, then?" Jack demanded, expectantly.

Asaid took the book, tipping it toward the light through the hatches. "It's a journal, I think, sir."

"We gathered as much." Jack urged him on with a fluttering of fingers. "Tell us something we don't know, mate."

"More like a diary, in parts, going back…" Asiad paused as he searched. "At least ten years, by these dates. Most of what I can read is only in the margins."

Settling more seriously to his task, Asaid leaned further into the shaft of light squeezing through the grates, and began reading with halting precision. "'_The Captain and crew are becoming'_…. I can't make that out, sir. '_I must be alert and prepared to take'_… something… '_to assure_ _my_'… something else." He looked up, a bit apologetic, deflated by his failure. "It's very unclear."

Jack's frown deepened as he looked down, as if seeing through the planks to the hold. "Where did that thing come from?" He shook his head, as if dismissing several answers that must have come to mind. "It bloody well didn't just come aboard on its own."

It was impossible to imagine that the box would have been brought aboard unnoticed. As superstitious as sailors were—and ever vigilant for anything out of the ordinary that might suggest or rouse said beliefs—someone would have made comment. Counting dockhands, barge handlers, and crewman on deck, and in the hold, every piece of cargo loaded onto the ship could well have been in direct contact with a minimum of four to six people, probably more. Someone definitely would have noticed—but what were they told when they did?

"Whomever had the book would probably have been the one to bring it," Kate said, going with the obvious answer.

"And eaten, just like the rest," Gibbs murmured.

Kate's head spun, as did everyone else's, it would seem. With such a mélange of contradictions and unanswered questions, it disorientation was becoming too easy, losing one's judgment, the minor matters transforming into overwhelmingly significant.

"Time to go!"

Jack's announcement was abrupt, but one everyone gladly complied with.

*************

**The** journey back across Bienveillant's bay, started out quietly enough, each person entrenched in his—or her—own thoughts. Asaid and Hassim manned the oars, with Kate and Jack, Stevens and Bandai on the benches. Gibbs was at the stern tiller, while Marty perched at the bow, cradling his favorite muskatoon.

The sunlight on their faces had been dazzling when they had come up from the _Hersilia _catacombs. A thin layer of clouds hung in mare's tail wisps, but the sun was still warm and a welcome relief from the ship's chill. The daylight and fresh air had lightened everyone's spirits; the men held their heads a little higher, and their shoulders squarer. As the boats paralleled each other, one slightly behind the other, jovial conversation passed among the occupants, sometimes from one boat to another, everyone seeming to be eager for some opportunity to laugh, in hopes of erasing some of the lingering malignancy of the ship.

Swaying with the rocking chair rhythm of the boat, Kate sat idly thumbing through the journal. Too fascinating to be left behind, it proved to be even more enthralling than she had previously thought, each page rife with drawings and illustrations, some quite skillfully executed, with disquieting clarity. Some had to have been maps, large scale, in some instances, showing what appeared to be indications of rivers and mountains. Others were of smaller spaces, towns with streets and buildings, or down even smaller, to what appeared to be the diagrams of buildings, with doors, passageways and windows.

"Who's this?"

Kate held the book backwards, over her shoulder, for Asaid to see. He took advantage of a forward stroke of the oars to lean closer. Peering at the illustration, he flushed and looked away.

"That would be Ishtar, sir," he finally was able to bring himself to say, suddenly intent on the rigors of rowing.

"Rather a bit of a voluptuary, wasn't she?"

Voluptuous didn't begin to describe the woman in the illustration, with thick arms and exaggerated hips, holding her own heavy breasts. With an elaborate hair-do and a large beaded necklace, she exhibited all the attributes of what must have been considered beauty, at the time. There were definite benefits of not having lived back then.

"A bit of a tart, if you ask me," Jack sniffed at her elbow as he slid a glance at the illustration, and then firmly crossed his arms on his chest, in a public announcement as to his assessment of the entire matter.

"Nobody is," Kate said to the page, hiding a smile.

"She was the goddess of love."

Jack made a guttural noise in the back of his throat, but Asiad pressed on, unfazed. "Also battle and war, fertility, sex and childbirth."

"Rather covers it all, doesn't it?" Kate mused.

"Typical woman." Jack recoiled at Kate's sharp look, his hair oddments rattling with the force. "Couldn't she make up her mind?"

Kate could feel the entire company aboard straining with curiosity, so she obligingly passed the book around, murmurs of approval, and awkward glances, marking its progress around the boat, while Jack threw dark looks, huffing. It was humorous, and at the same time, touching, that Jack would be so uncomfortable at her looking at such things, let alone sharing it with other men. Considering what they had done the night before—well, actually many nights before—he couldn't possibly think her naïve. Besides, it was another woman. What was so objectionable about that?

"Every man who was to lay eyes upon her fell in love. Disconsolate, because they couldn't have her, there were many men mutilating themselves." Asaid's voice carried a bit of that same love-stricken tenor.

"Mutilating?" Kate echoed.

Asaid nodded, serious at his task of storyteller. "The King finally had to declare that, if another man was to castrate himself, he would be put to death."

Everyone winced and groaned, reflexively putting a protective hand to their crotch, just to be sure everything was still in place and intact.

"Sounds like death already." Jack made a choking sound, as he assured himself of his own wholeness. "Just the small matter of putting the poor wretch out of his misery."

Growing more fascinated, Kate turned in her seat, to face Asaid. "So, was it the men complaining that motivated the king, or the women complaining, because there were no more able men left?"

"It's a lesson you needn't worry yourself about, darling," Jack cut in. Still shoulder-to- shoulder with Kate, he only needed to lean back slightly to try and snatch the book away. "Surely, there's something else in this wretched tome…"

"You know, come to think on it…" Kate said, off-handedly evading Jack's attempts.

"Oh, dear," Jack groaned. Surrendering his quest, he propped his elbow on the gunwale, and ran a tired hand down his face. "Nothing good ever comes from that."

"Does it make sense," Kate went on, "that the goddess of harlots would be the one to cause all the men to castrate themselves?"

Jack wormed again. "Do you have to say it quite like that?"

"How else is there to say it? Think about it," she went on, caught up in her own thoughts. "Isn't it rather counterproductive, to have the one they worship, be the very same one that is putting them out of business?"

Jack rolled Kate a warning look over his shoulder, the shadow of his hat slicing diagonally across his profile. "Darling, I've discovered that it is infinitely much more better, if you not over-think such matters. These things rarely bear explanation; they are what they are." He shrugged, point made.

"Well, think about it," she said. "No ruler acts on anything, unless there is some kind of pressure from somewhere."

"Surely, t'wouldn't be the men complainin'," Gibbs suggested from the stern.

"Why?" Kate asked, caught up in the logistics of the situation. "Because of what they were doing to themselves? That was no one's fault, but their own."

Jack's discomfiture was increasing. He made another furtive attempt to snatch the book away, but Kate managed to evade his efforts once again by shifting it to her far hand. "Do we have this conversation at this very moment?"

Kate turned to gawk at him then sputtered in disbelief. "You don't want me looking at this, in front of them, do you?"

"A little louder, darling. I don't think the two at the stern quite heard you." Jack glowered, narrowing a threatening eye. Ruffled by his ineffectiveness, he groped for words, finally settling on something far less acid, and the nearest to the truth he could manage. "It doesn't strike one as proper." He punctuated his point with a definitive, prim nod.

"I'm hardly _proper_," she said judiciously.

"You're scaring the men. Enough said."

The finality of his statement extinguished all further discussion.

An awkward silence fell over the boat, with only the sound of the bow arrowheading through the waves. Kate squirmed, in an attempt to gain a little more comfort. Once in the open air, her skirts had dried somewhat, but the dampness had wicked up to nearly her hips, and still clung in the inner thickness. The inside of her shoes was slick with sludge from the hold, squishing up between her toes when she moved them. The omnipresent bilge water sloshing in the bottom of the boat gave off a whiff of moldy wood, a bit too reminiscent of the _Hersilia's_ hold.

Drumming her fingers on the book, Kate tried distracting herself with watching the shoreline, or counting the intervals between the oar strokes, but her mind kept drifting back to the intriguing contents. Unable to resist, she cautiously opened it again, hoping Jack didn't notice… right away, at least.

"What ever happened to her?" Kate finally asked, thumbing through the pages. Staring at the water, Jack let out a muffled, groan of frustration.

Kate was quite familiar with mythology, Greek and Roman, with a bare sprinkling of Celtic. Mrs. Peachwood's Conservatory for Young Ladies of Cultured Refinement had been quite adamant with the opinion that such knowledge would be the pivotal stepping stone for their protégé's eternal social—and hence, economic—success, although they had meticulously omitted any of the more sordid tales. Brian, however, a great reader of mythology, held no such reservations, related such sagas with relish.

Asaid looked slightly puzzled. "Who?"

"Ishtar. If I recall my mythology, none of these gods ever led a dull life. They were smitten with a lot of things, but boredom never seemed to be one of their tribulations. What did she have to do with the… the…"

"The Body of Da'ud," Hassim put in helpfully from Asaid's elbow, the two hauling on the oars in long-practiced unison.

Kate squinted against the sun's glare. "And it's the dead son of a king?"

"No, _he's_ not dead," Hassim, corrected, seriously. "He was never born."

"Why does that make sense?" Jack grumbled, pointedly keeping his attention toward the water.

Asaid saw that further explanation was necessary. "Da'ud's father was King Tarif Matghari; he was king of a great land in Northern Africa, above the Rif. Success had blessed him in many ways; he had many daughters, but no sons. Desperate, he went in search of Ishtar, the goddess of fertility, to request a favor."

"Reasonable move," Jack said, with a concordant nod, but still making it apparent that he was entirely uninterested.

"Ishtar was stunningly beautiful."

Kate looked down at the drawing as Jack leaned back sufficiently, to peek over Kate's arm. "I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Every man who gazed upon her fell madly in love." Asaid paused, grunting with the effort of digging deeper with the oar. "She possessed an appetite for all men, and was a voracious lover."

Angling his head, Jack carved the air in an equivocating gesture. "I could see how that arrangement might work."

Quiet-spoken and unassuming, Asaid was much like Hughes and Gibbs: a natural-born storyteller, able to weave a world, snagging the listener, almost instantly. Unable to pass up an elaborate tale, Gibbs' fascination with the bizarre drew him, cocking an ear as he leaned closer, lest he miss a single word, the tiller forgotten in his hand. Marty struck much the same pose at the bow. Everyone was avidly listening, except Jack.

"The King petitioned Ishtar for a son, and she agreed, _if_ the King would grant her desire."

"Ah! A parley." Jack rearranged his arms, settling agreeably, his eyes lighting with enthusiasm. "Now we're getting to something we can all understand."

"Ishtar wished for the King to lie with her," Asaid added delicately, averting his eyes from Kate.

Jack shifted, avoiding Kate's gaze as well. "One might imagine the consequences, of such an arrangement, could possibly go badly," he began slowly, assuming an authoritative voice. "When dealing with a goddess, that is."

Kate got the distinct impression that she was hearing the voice of experience, and arched him a questioning brow over her shoulder. Blinking back like a bored owl, Jack turned to face the water once more.

"Desperate for a son, and an heir to the throne, the King agreed."

"An accord," Jack nodded with satisfaction. "Mind the heading, Master Gibbs!"

The tiller gone still in his hand, Gibbs had left the boat to its own devices. Unguided, it had begun to drift off course. Sputtering, Gibbs stiffened, and scrambled to correct the oversight, assuming a disinterested pose after.

"The King's wise woman soon told him that his consort was with child—a son—but the child was dead in the womb. Devastated, the King went back to Ishtar, demanding that she honor their agreement.'

"Justifiable." Jack wagged a monitory finger. "One must always honor an accord. Without that, there's no order in the world; complete chaos is all you would have."

"Ishtar pointed out that the King had failed to keep his part of the bargain."

Jack slid Kate a sheepish look, flashing a tentative smile. "Some things are easily overlooked."

"The King knew that there was a price to be paid: any man that should lie with her, would lose his senses, his life destroyed. So the King had sent a look alike, but Ishtar was wise and discovered his betrayal."

Snorting, Jack shook his head with a world-weary wisdom that suggested more than just the occasional contretemps. "Isn't that always the way of it?"

"There was a war coming, and the King could not leave his kingdom for the journey. Worried for the safety of his child, knowing that his consort's time would come while he was gone, he went to a magi and had his son put into a sacred egg, to remain there, unborn and safe, until his return.

"Still worried, knowing Ishtar's treachery too well, the King went to the ruler of the Underworld and all djinn, to arrange for the sacred egg to be guarded. But, the King did not realize that Ishtar had descended to the Underworld."

"I thought you said she was the goddess of fertility."

Another barely sympathetic noise came from Jack, at Kate's apparent inability to follow the convoluted tale.

Asiad nodded. "She was, but then she fell to the Underworld. She went in search of her greatest love."

"I thought you said she loved all men," Jack pointed out, swiveling in his seat to face Asaid.

"Lust and love can be quite separate," Hassim said, with surprising sincerity.

Jack made a face and turned back around. "Fair enough."

"In her absence," continued Asaid, "the Upperworld mourned her loss. Men tore out their hair, and all passion was lost—stopped entirely, everywhere, for everyone and everything."

"Now there's Hell. Those ancients never did understand the concept of moderation." Jack's hand rose on its own to touch his hair, assuring that it was still there, firmly attached.

Eager nods and muttering of hearty agreements of their captain's observations rippled around the vessel.

"Finally, seeing the destruction and desolation of the land, the most powerful god, conjured a eunuch, and sent him for Ishtar's return, armed with incantations."

"Never underestimate a eunuch," declared Jack.

Taken aback by the sage tone in that comment—and heaven help anyone surprised by anything that fell out of Jack's mouth—Kate slowly swiveled her head to meet Jack's carefully arranged blank face inches from hers. She bit the inside of her mouth, as she resisted inquiring as to where that bit of wisdom had come from.

Listening intently, Kate had been looking through the book. There were several additional renderings of women, supposedly Ishtar. One was shown regally reclined on a chaise, wearing a crescent crown, with a shining oval stone in the center. In another, she bore a shield and bow, driving a chariot drawn by seven lions. Another, much more crudely drawn, she had the head of a lioness, and holding something oval in her hand.

"The King returned from battle. Grievously injured, he knew that he would never live to take his son to the Western Gate. Worse, he found that the guardian, who should have been protecting the sacred egg, had been derelict, cavorting about, and playing mischief."

"Which djinn are prone to do," Hassim added as a sidebar, his long face still serious.

"Enraged, the King had the guardian smitten, and slashed into pieces, cursing them all to the lowest levels of Hell. As the dijnn's body was rent apart, he tasted of his own blood, and grew to love it. Hence, all the djinns created from him required blood, in order to exist. The King went to the head of the Underworld, and demanded that a Keeper be assigned, to assure that the djinn were kept to their task and protect his son.

"King Tarif finally succumbed to his injuries, his final wish being that whomever was to deliver his son to the Western Gate, would be rewarded eternal life and wisdom. And he placed a curse on anyone who disturbed the egg, or his son in any way."

"Eternal life." Jack made a skeptical noise in his throat, as he shook his head.

"So, what are these?"

Asaid stopped rowing long enough to hunch forward to see what Kate was exhibiting.

"Those are her symbols," he said, momentarily frowning as he strove to fall back into sequence with the other oarsmen. "The sunburst," he began, grunting with effort, "is for

the sunrise, Venus, the day star."

"But, it can also be sunset, Venus, the evening star," Hassim put in solemnly.

"Is that an egg with a snake around it?"

The two nodded in unison. "The egg is for fertility. And the snake is eternal protection."

"And this circle?" Kate pointed at an elaborate drawing of a circle, with a dove imposed on a shield, an eight-pointed star and a series of numbers running around the edge.

"The medallion of Asushu-Namir, the eunuch. Originally, it was to draw Ishtar from the Underworld, but it would be a great power for anyone who wore it, to summon her protection."

Kate's fingers brushed the roughness of the cover of the book. Obscured by wear, and the darkening of aged leather, the markings were undeniably there: the circle of the eunuch emissary, burned in, virtually branded. Her hand curled closed, the scars under the protective wrappings pressing against the bands of her wrist.

"What do the numbers signify?" she asked, meditatively rubbing her arm against her leg.

"All the gods have their own number; Ishtar's number was fifteen." Asiad said simply, then went on to explain at her puzzled look. Add up any two numbers next to each other in the circle, and it will come to fifteen.

By the power of suggestion, Kate had begun verifying Asaid's theory before he made the offer. After several sequences of numbers, she conceded to his veracity.

"What happened to the… son… Da'ud, after the King died?"

"No one knows. It's said the King had it hidden in his own tomb, to keep it safe from thieves and those of ill heart."

"Then, how was anyone to deliver it… the son… Da'ud, if no one can find it… him?"

Jack leaned back to bring his eyes in line with Kate's, regarding her with a kohl-lined sharpness. "Careful, darling. You're over thinking again. Best if most of these tales are left at face value."

"Men had sought Da'ud throughout the centuries," Hassim continued, determined to finish the tale. "Entire lives have been spent in search of him."

Kate looked down at the book in her lap, with a new eye. "Then that's what this book is: someone's life work."

In the light of day, looking closer, Kate could see at least two or three different handwriting, including the "lost language" passages. How many lives were represented in that one, worn volume? The answer was several, by the looks of the variety of writing. Lifelong quests, obsessions, searching at the expense of all else: she had heard tales of such compulsions, but this was her first personal witness.

At first, one is inclined to think it impossible, or at least improbable, that someone could be that possessed. But, from what she had been told, Jack had lived his own relentless quest, spending ten years in search of the _Black Pearl_. If someone was as possessed by the same passion as Jack nurtured for his ship, then it was easy to understand how they could spend a lifetime looking for a mysterious box that promised miracles.

"What do you imagine happened to the most recent owner—the one that brought this aboard the _Hersilia_?"

It was a rhetorical question, which she broadly posed to anyone who cared to offer an opinion.

"He was certainly the most successful of them all, it would seem," Jack put in pragmatically. "He found that bloody box."

"But, it was empty." Hindsight being what it was, it was difficult to imagine that Jack's conjecture could be considered a victory.

"_Now_." Jack narrowed one eye, just for that extra bit of emphasis and conviction. "I'm willing to bet me best shirt it wasn't so when it was brought aboard."

Kate's mouth quivered with the strain of needing to smile, and was grateful she was facing the opposite direction. "You only have one shirt."

"Aye, and it's me best one." He jerked a nod then settled back confidently, crossing his arms. "I stand by me wager."

Kate shook her head, ignoring the urge to argue. "But my question still stands: what happened to him?"

Jack gave Kate a narrow look, as if she were deliberately testing him. "Probably the same thing as every other soul on that ship."

Kate looked down at the book in her lap and shuddered then gulped, stricken by the personal tragedy, to be eaten by the very thing someone had spent a lifetime seeking.

Jack arched one brow, seemingly divining Kate's thoughts. "Ironic, isn't it?"

Jack reached around, and firmly flipped the volume shut; a jut of his chin and a jerk of his head announcing to all that the conversation was as closed as the book.


	13. Chapter 13: Where Dark and Shadows Meet

**Chapter Thirteen: Where Dark and Shadows Meet**

**By **the time, the longboat returned to Bienveillant's small, weather worn dock, the swag pile waiting to be delivered to the _Black Pearl_ had grown by considerable proportions. Pirates weren't inclined toward standing idly about when there was an entire plantation to be plundered. Those standing on the dock, awaiting their arrival, seemed inordinately anxious to load up, tossing things into the boat before Kate's hem had cleared the gunwale.

"I think Master Rahal and I need to have a bit more of a chat," Jack announced to Kate, settling his belts, his boots clumping hollowly on the wood as he stalked down it, dodging men with loaded arms, heading for the boats.

"Where's Rahal?" Jack demanded the instant his feet touched land.

Petrov straightened from his labors. "Just left, sir, I believe."

"Aye, sir," put in Hughes. "He said as he were headin' back up there." A jerk of his head indicated the hills above the grounds.

"Get him!"

"Sir?"

Jack turned back, glowering at the two crewmen. "Two words," he began, holding up two fingers, ticking them off as he spoke. "Get… him. Any questions?"

"No, sir," the two chimed in unison, and hurried away.

"And take two or three more with you," Jack called after them. "Drag him back by the hair, if you have to."

"I need to wash."

Jack spun around, scowling at Kate's abrupt announcement. "What? Now?" He was more than a little incredulous, and a lot bewildered. "We don't have enough to worry about, that you need to wash… now?"

"Well, don't you want to? I'm still soaked from the knees down."

Truth be told, the wetness had wicked considerably further, since they had left the _Hersilia_; she was damp nearly to her waist. Visions of the red-brown murk, with swirling bits of God knew what, kept flashing through her mind at every whiff of her skirts.

"I still smell like that hold."

Grumbling a reluctant concession, Jack followed in Kate's wake off the dock, and down around the pilings, to the beach. The bay was still churned by the wind, but the trees offered a good windbreak, so the water immediately around the dock undulated in flattening rolls. She pulled off her shoes at the edge of the water, lest they be lost in the sandy bottom, but carried them as she waded out to nearly her waist, Jack trudging close behind.

The salt water would leave her clothes scratchy and stiff, but it was a small price to pay to be rid of the smell. The less she was reminded of the hold, or the _Hersilia_, for that matter, the better. The water swirled pinkish brown as she stooped down, swishing her skirts, trying to rid them of the foulness, but mindful of the pistol still at her waist. Tiny fish came curiously up, poking at the colored water, and then darted off. Jack stood not much more than an arm's length away, with his arms crossed. She couldn't see his foot submerged in the water, but she was sure he was patting it, just the same.

"You think Rahal was lying?" Kate asked conversationally, as she scrubbed the folds of her skirt.

Jack lifted one shoulder in a dramatic shrug, the tails of his sash trailing at his knees. "Darling, more often than not, a lie is nothing more than a bit of truth that has yet to be told."

"Sounds like the voice of experience," Kate mused. Twisting her hips, she ground her feet into the soft bottom, sanding away the grime and sludge.

A suspicious look came from the corner of a kohl-smudged eye. "I've had a few try it on me before," he said dryly.

"That wasn't exactly what I meant." She paused, squinting one eye closed against the water's glare. "You know, you look a little silly standing there, boots and all."

"I seem to be led into a lot of silly things, lately, that I wouldn't have ordinarily managed on me own." His message wasn't lost on her.

Gibbs returned from across the yard, where he had been conferring with several men. He hung at the waterline, undecided, and then finally waded out.

"Just checked progress with the foragers, Cap'n." Jack's expectant gaze spurred Gibbs to continue. "There be fair little stores," he announced, judiciously keeping his eyes averted away, as if he had just caught Kate in the bath.

"Nothing?" Jack frowned, not a little surprised.

"Nothing," Gibbs confirmed grimly, his grizzled brows nearly meeting. "We've checked every larder, pantry, cupboard, springhouse, smokehouse, cellar and shed. Nothing. Whoever's been livin' here has done a good job of scavengin' the place."

The unspoken question Gibbs was posing was a simple one: stay, or go? The sun had crossed its zenith; it was well past midday. Sailors were well accustomed to living on spare rations, but the pirates would be able to operate on raw energy for just so long. Food was a necessity, and soon. If they go, it would mean giving up on whatever "treasure" Barker had implied. If they stayed, food would have to be procured, either from the _Black Pearl_ or the _Clothilde's _stores.

If they opted to remain on the island, for Kate the hidden merit was that Mr. Kirkland would most probably be accompanying anything brought from the _Pearl_ ashore. It was a broad consensus that the cook had no skills as a pirate; his talents were strictly confined to the galley. He had been left aboard as a part of the anchor watch, but no doubt, he would be coming ashore, guaranteeing the quality of everything to be consumed.

"We've been lookin' for more than just pea meal and dried onions, sir." Gibbs arched a meaningful brow, divining his commander's next question. "Nothing… shiny, yet."

The final lilt in his voice said that he—meaning the crew—were willing to persevere in their search.

"Very well, then." Jack agreed with a quick nod. "Start hauling the necessaries; plan on just one more day. Put Kirkland on it." He glanced at Kate, a glimmer of a smile playing across his mouth. "He'll know what's best. You said the _Clothilde_ was loaded?"

"To the beams," Gibbs confirmed, rocking on his heels.

"Then get a detail out there, and see what's to be had."

A quick nod from Jack sent Gibbs off on his mission.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

**Distant **and distracted, Jack sat across the table from Kate as she sipped at a cup of broth. Her stomach had knotted at the suggestion of food when they had returned, but then chose to growl at the smell of the cooking fires. Food was scarce, but any food smelled good to her inner being. After a certain amount of grousing from Jack, she finally conceded to the broth, and now approached it with delicacy.

Thumbing through the book brought from the _Hersilia_, she watched Jack from the corner of her eye. With his chin propped in his hand, grumbling as he periodically cast an eye skyward judging the time, he drummed his fingers on the table, while one foot tapped an incessant tattoo on the well-trampled dirt.

Finally, his head came up at the sight of a small band approaching from beyond the paddocks, Gibbs falling dutifully in behind.

"Where's the daughter?" Jack asked without ceremony of the group in general at seeing that only Rahal had been brought.

"He claims she's foraging, sir," Petrov quickly reported. "Besides, sir, you only asked for him."

Jack turned a quizzical look at Rahal, clearly expecting a response. "We'll be needing firewood by tonight," Rahal simply said, showing no intentions of offering anything further.

His response begged the question why he and his daughter weren't planning on remaining with the men of the _Black Pearl_ rather than alone in the hills. However, the decision to stay for the night had just been made, so it would be reasonable that Rahal and his daughter wouldn't have known. Still, if they were assuming that the _Pearl_ would be leaving, it seemed logical that they would be asking to come along. Perhaps the idea of spending the night amid pirates was less appealing than a night alone in the forest.

"A word, sir," Jack began, absent of any politeness beyond calling the meeting to order. "We're in need of a few more answers as to what has been going on around here."

Having declined Kate's offer of a seat, Rahal stood at the end of the table. His eyes flickered for a moment upon seeing the book. Brief as it might have been, she was sure there had seen a glimmer of recognition on his impassive face.

"You said these _beings_, came from that ship?" Jack indicated the _Heresilia _with a lift of his chin.

"It seemed as much." Rahal glanced cautiously at the circle of men, pirates one and all, gathered around. For a moment, he seemed undecided as to how much to say. Jack's hand casually rising to his pistol clearly helped him arrive at a conclusion.

"It wrecked about one year ago." Rahal stood square on his feet, his dark gaze holding Jack's, daring him to look away.

"So you said."

Jack's fingers twitched at the butt. Kate knew the gesture to be one of his myriads of quirks, especially when agitated, as did everyone else—except Rahal, who kept a guarded eye on Jack's weapon.

"Things started to disappear: first, the game became scarce, then the chickens and goats, and then the livestock…"

"You said that, as well," Jack cut in, impatiently motioning Rahal to get on with it.

"At first, it was hell," Rahal went on, his eyes going distant. "They always come at night—never in the day—but there was no way of knowing where, or who, or when. Little by little, Master Perrineau came upon leaving a chicken or goat, and they would take that, leaving all else in peace. As the days passed, the goats were gone, so it was a sheep. And when the sheep were gone, it was a cow. And when the cows were gone…"

"It was a horse," Jack finished. He drew a slow hand along the line of his mustache to help cover the ill look that befell him.

"And when the horses were gone…" Gibbs' voice faded.

Rahal nodded solemnly. "The old and the sick were the first," he began, in a rather matter of fact tone. Everyone gasped as the full impact of what he meant hit home. "Then, one by one, the field hands..."

"How…" Gibbs stopped, gulping. "I mean, where…?"

"Out there," Rahal said, gesturing toward the path and the clearing beyond. "Chained them to the post and…"

"Left," Jack finished, his lip curling in disgust.

Kate—and everyone else, judging by the ashen faces—was staggered at the image of the unfortunate person shackled to a post, waiting in the dark, knowing what was coming, clawing at the wood—they had seen the evidence of that—fingers bleeding from the splinters—they had seen the dark stains of that, too—wrists bloodied from frantic attempts to escape, until they were torn free, and drug away.

"_Madre de Dios!"_ The dry rasp came from Moya. Blinking, he sagged back, his mouth agape. "Unbelievable!"

"Unbelievable?" asked Rahal, a tinge of cold mocking as he turned slightly toward Moya. "Live it, sir. Then tell me if it's 'unbelievable.'"

Moya gulped, then tried to speak. He paused, to wipe his brow, and then began again. "The crew of the _Clothilde_ told of horrible tales: men, people, everyone, everything, anything alive, being taken in the night—eaten."

As Rahal twisted to face Moya, something at his neck gave off a metallic glimmer in the light: a gold medallion, nearly twice the size of a shilling, at Rahal's neck. It had probably been buried in the folds of his shirt before, and even now, the details of it were obscured.

"Everything," Rahal echoed, his ominous tone hanging in the air.

"Where does Barker fit into all of this?"

Rahal stiffened, startled by the challenge in Jack's voice. "It became clear quickly that there would not be enough here. Captain Barker was to bring extras."

"Extra what?"

Rahal paused, giving Jack a steady look. "The ones Barker was bringing, the ones he always brought."

"Now, look, mate," Jack said, waggling a minatory finger. "I've not played silly questions since I was a lad, and I have no intention, nor inclination, of starting now. Now, either tell me what's going on here, or I might be inclined to show you some of our more _piratey_ activities. Extra what?"

"Food." Rahal looked around at the blank faces. "They were needed for food." He pointed a finger skyward. "For them."

The pirates gathered around the table fell quiet, shifting uncomfortably as they exchanged stunned looks. A freshening gust of wind blew past, affording everyone present an excuse for the crawl of gooseflesh. Kate surreptitiously rubbed her arms, noticing that she could see their hair standing on end, like static before a storm.

Jack held his breath for a moment, expecting more, then ran a weary hand over his face.

"C'mon, mate…"

"_They_," Rahal began, with foreboding emphasis, "must be fed… daily. If you feed them, they leave you alone." His words faded as he shuddered. "Captain Barker usually brought what was needed, but he was too late. We ran out of… food."

"Your master hired Barker, to bring more… for them?"

As Rahal nodded, Jack leaned back, his throat moving as he swallowed his own large lump.

"_They're just fodder_," Jack murmured, recalling the same echoing words Kate was hearing. "Barker had said, 'They were just fodder.'" He shook his head in a sudden wave of compassion for a man he had found so contemptible. "No wonder the man jumped. Good Ol' Bumpy, never could find his way anywhere…and certainly not in a timely fashion."

It seemed too bizarre, too unlikely. No one would—could—resort to all the efforts of obtaining other human beings, just to feed them to….

"Why not cattle or goats? Why did it have to be people?"

Rahal smiled with a barely patient tightness at Kate's question, and her apparent failure to comprehend. "People are easier… to find and transport, _and_ keep."

The cold calculation required to carry out such a heinous plan was beyond imagination. It was chilling to think of someone ordering more victims, arranging for their purchase and transport, having a place to keep them built, storing them like apples in a root cellar, to be taken out, one by one, and consumed. A person who could look another in the eye, as they had them drug all the way out to that isolated clearing and methodically chain them to it—and then walk away—certainly was no human. They were no less a monster than the invisible creatures that lurked in the night.

Life was cruel. Kate had been through that very school, herself, and had witnessed, more than once, the insults and devastation that could be visited upon one person by another. But this was beyond the pale.

"Why didn't all of you just leave?" Gibbs asked, suggesting the obvious.

Nodding in emphatic agreement, Jack looked expectantly to Rahal.

"My master said, 'No.'"

"What?" Jack and Gibbs chorused.

"He said, this was his land, and he wasn't leaving it."

"As long as he had someone to feed to the… them," Jack finished with a flap of his fingers as he rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced about, his brow furrowing with suspicion. "Where's your illustrious, and mind-bogglingly considerate, master now?"

"He's gone," Rahal said flatly. The wind had blown several strands of hair from the leather-bound queue at the back of his head, whipping the ends across his face.

"Yes, I know, so you said earlier," Jack said, growing irritable. "We've been over that."

"There were no more to give." Rahal closed his eyes. "There were no more in the storeroom."

"Storeroom?"

Visions came back of the dungeon-like conditions of the underground room they had found that morning, and the pungent, sharp smell of hopelessness and desolation that overshadowed the squalor and death.

Rahal nodded, his dark eyes narrowing at their failure to understand. "Yes, under the house, in the cellar. Barker was supposed to arrive any day, but Master Perrineau had to do something, so he used the house servants."

"Working his way up the social ladder," muttered Jack. "And then what?"

"One night, by accident, his daughter was taken."

Jack skeptically closed one eye. "Accident?" His tone implied that he was not going to believe any of what Rahal was suggesting, not for a minute. "Was that after all the servants and slaves were gone?"

Rahal only looked away, declining to answer. "His youngest daughter was taken the next night." His voice came out in a thin rasp. Apparently, the man wasn't completely devoid of feelings.

"That buggering, bastard," Jack growled, his hand on the table curling into a fist.

"Why didn't he leave?" It was Gibbs question, going for the obvious again.

Rahal twisted slightly to look at Gibbs. "By this time, it was too late," he said simply. "The overseer and his wife had taken the only boat; there was no way off the island."

"Why weren't you two taken?"

Bandai and Hughes appeared, coming up from the shore. Obviously agitated, they stopped some distance away, hailing Gibbs, waving him over. Gibbs reluctance to leave was evident—just when the story was getting good, by his standards—but dutifully left.

"I took my daughter and hid in a cave; no one came looking," Rahal said, watching Gibbs' receding figure.

Jack swore softly, but still full of color. "Bloody bastard was too busy saving his own ass." He rubbed a tired hand along the back of his neck. "When did your _Master _finally meet his final demise?"

Rahal lifted one shoulder and let it drop. "Four, maybe five nights ago. It's difficult to say; we haven't been wandering far from the cave."

"There was another room in the cellar," Jack pressed. "It was smaller, and all the way to the back. It looked like all hell had broken loose there."

"In a way, it did." Rahal's face became strained, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallowed. "That was our safe place."

"Safe place?" Jack echoed. "You chose to go down in a hole in the ground to be safe? By the looks of it, there wasn't much safety to be had for someone."

"It wasn't my choice to be made," Rahal replied evenly. "In the end… that was where…" He closed his eyes, one hand curling into a fist. "That was where the Master… was taken."

Rahal was clearly shaken, more emotionally moved than they had seen, and justifiably so. Those who had been underground realized, with cold clarity, what that horror would have been. As despicable as Perrineau appeared to have been—including some very questionable judgment—no one deserved that kind of death. Desperate for a distraction, Kate picked up the journal, and held it in front of Rahal.

"Do you know anything about this book?"

Rahal's eyes shifted with uncertainty, steeling to not retreat, then sharpened. "How could I? It's been on the ship all this time."

Kate risked a glance at Jack as she thumbed through the pages. "I thought you might recognize some of the drawings, or words, or symbols."

Rahal's gaze narrowed, pointedly avoiding looking at the book. "Why would I know of those?"

"Because some of the men here are of the opinion that they were Arabic," Kate replied, with a steady patience. "I had the impression that you were Arab, also, so I thought you might know… something."

Rahal's dark eyes went stony, the muscles in his jaws flexing. "I wouldn't know."

Kate continued to quiz him, shoving the book forward, forcing him to look, despite the fact that she knew there would be no answers forthcoming.

"You've been here a while," Jack thoughtfully interrupted. He leaned casually enough on his elbows, but his eyes sharpened as watched Rahal. "What about money, gold, riches? Anything, anywhere?"

The gathered pirates leaned closer, holding their collective breath, eager to hear.

Rahal smiled, somewhat condescending. "Slaves cost money. One per day, for months, it becomes very costly. Madam's jewelry, the sugar, the rum—everything of value is gone."

"Most of the people on the _Clothilde_ appeared to be natives; many of the slaves and bonded told us that they had been kidnapped, stolen," said Moya, from over Jack's shoulder.

Jack sputtered a rueful laugh. "It would appear that our dear Captain Barker was playing Perrineau, stealing the people and pocketing the profits. Treachery comes with many faces." He shot Kate a look rich with 'I told you so.'

With a sudden slap of his hands on his thighs, he rose. "Well, you're welcome to come aboard the _Black Pearl._ We'll drop you and your daughter off at the next port, if you like."

"I would prefer to excuse myself, Captain." Rahal's last word bore a disapproving bite. "I would like to see to my daughter… if you don't mind."

Jack blinked, and was just about to respond when Gibbs came churning up the small grade from the shore.

"Cap'n!"


	14. Chapter 14: The Many Faces of Fear

9

_Treasured Treasures_

Chapter Fourteen:

Many Faces of Fear

Frustrated anger was in Gibbs' every move, his body eloquent with it. Jack surveyed his first mate casually enough, but the small parade of dour-faced men flanking Gibbs was a harbinger that nothing good was coming. For all the skills his captain possessed, of hiding his every thought, Gibbs owned no such gift; his face was an open book.

Jack glanced at the sun, and then to Kate, wincing. It would be a while, before this day would end.

"Cap'n!"

It was an unnecessary salutation, since Jack was already standing with his hands draped on his weapons, waiting.

"Master Gibbs?" By the sound of it, Jack was already bracing for the worst.

"Those pox-ridden, thick-pated, slammakey, slack-bellied, misbegotten, ill-beseen, foul-advised, dung-souled…" Gibbs's grey eyes bulged with his tirade of euphemisms and expletives.

Jack allowed Gibbs his exposition for another few moments, apparently understanding the man's need to vent—and display a bit of theatrics. It was only a gust of wind, but from Kate's angle, it looked as if it was Gibbs' tirade that was blowing Jack's hair back, standing the red tails of his scarf on end.

"So, I gather," Jack finally cut in. If nothing else, his interjection allowed Gibbs an opportunity to draw a breath. "To the point, if you please, sir."

"The boats," Gibbs finally sputtered, his wide mouth pressing into a grim line. He pointed a rigid arm, his hand shaking with acrimony toward the _Black Pearl_. "Those black-hearted, weasel-faced, spineless, water-hearted, chunks o' rotten seahorse, parcels of moldering entrails…"

There was an enthusiastic backdrop of rumbling affirmations from the men around him.

"I understand," Jack said, with only a small amount of sympathy. "_The point_, Gibbs!"

Gibbs clamped his mouth shut as he closed his eyes, harnessing his wrath. "They took the boats."

Jack's eyes shifted uncertainly. "Aye?" he coaxed, failing to comprehend. "Can't very well load the swag without."

Vibrating with outrage, Gibbs' hands balled into fists at his side, as he set off into another outpouring. "By Flint's body and bones, and curse me with everlasting torments, I'll let those sons of a double-eyed whores see the color of their innards. They won't come back."

Jack was nodding agreeably, but then stopped, his face falling. "What?"

"_Aquele é o que o Sr. Gibbs tem tentado dizer, capitão,"_ Diogo declared, bounding on his toes with pique. "_Os bastardos_ _sem uma mãe não virão em terra_."

"_Inglês, por favor_!" Jack hissed, closing his eyes, seeking patience.

"That is what Mr. Gibbs has been trying to say, Captain," Diogo repeated haltingly. "The motherless bastards won't come back to shore."

Jack's upper lip curled in disbelief. "That's ridiculous! How the bloody hell are we supposed to get off this wretched rock, if the don't bring the boats back?"

"Exactly!" Gibbs' brows arched, his grey eyes bulging to the point of threatening to pop from their sockets.

"That's ridiculous!" Jack shouted, his hands spiraling in the air.

"You said that," Kate put in.

Jack spun around, glaring. "And I'll say it again, if I bloody well want to!" He took several steps toward shore, and stood with his hands on his hips. "What, in all that's holy, brought this on?"

"_São terrificados, senhor_."

Jack turned Diogo with a daggered look.

"They are terrified, sir," the young Portuguese stammered, wisely falling back into English.

"_Que_?" Jack's frustration was causing him to jump from one language to another.

"_Tienen muy miedo, capitán_." Moya's Spanish came from behind Gibbs. "They are afraid."

"Afraid of the flying creatures that eat off your face," Hassim offered as an important reminder.

"I think it's safe to say they eat all of you," Jack corrected, in an odd moment of calm.

"And great hands that pull you to the depths…" Stevens put in.

"_Los manos del diablos_," Moya added, nodding emphatically.

Jack spread a withering look among all of them, ending at Gibbs. "And who, pray tell, might have been responsible, for filling their heads full of this cock and nonsense?"

"It's not nonsense, Captain," Moya cut in. "Owens is dead, Soo and Niemenen, too."

"Killed by a bunch of rebelling captives," Jack point out, loosing his patience.

"And Shalken?"

"Drowned, because he couldn't swim," Jack ground out at Baines through bared teeth.

"But, Moya said he saw…."

"Overloaded boats swamping!"

"Be that as it may, Cap'n, they aren't comin' back, for swag, nor us, until they think it's safe," Gibbs pointed out with asperity.

Jack planted his hands on his hips, the dangles of his beard bobbing wildly. "And how, in all of this infinite wisdom, are they supposed to know when that fortuitous moment has arrived? When we've all died from a ripe old age?"

"If we live that long," muttered Moya.

"Dalham," came Rahal's quiet voice from behind the group.

Asaid, Hassim, and several others that spoke Arabic, gasped, their eyes rounding with fear as they fell several steps back.

"Dalham!"

"Dalham!"

Looking on with avid curiosity, the gathering split like the biblical waters, to allow the small man to come forward. Surveying the quailing men, Jack gaze arrived at Rahal, and arched an expectant brow with the grim conviction that he had just found his culprit. The two held each other's gazes for several moments, neither willing to back down.

The men were nervous—and it was beginning to spread, and grow. Fear was a ravenous emotion that fed quickly on any source of unease or superstition. There was no denying it: there was something about the place, an air that made every sound seem odd and every shadow suspicious. The last thing Jack needed was someone throwing additional fuel on an already raging fire.

"Do I want to hear this?"

"The Djinn of the Deep," Rahal said, his voice ringing out over the sudden hush. "He can cause ships to wreck, and then devours the bodies of the sailors."

The sound of spitting echoed from amid the crewmen, horned fingers and other hex signs being formed behind their backs. Lips moved in silent oaths and prayers, while others touched their charms, medals or whatever other talisman they wore for just such occasions.

"We hardly need any more of your input, thank you very much!" Jack turned toward the men. "Myths and fairytales." His argument fell on deaf ears. "The best way to overcome your fears is to face them square on. If you fall off the horse, get right back on; if you nearly drown, ehh… jump back in."

Jack's philosophy was met with distracted and slightly irritated looks, dismissing him on the grounds that he clearly didn't understand the powers involved. His arguments were a wasted effort anyway; no amount of logic was going to make a boat appear. To be honest, the ones who needed persuading the most were on the _Black Pearl,_ not standing there on shore.

Jack broke into a flood of his own vile oaths, Gibbs, and company, cringing as he stormed back and forth, kicking at the ground. Fuming, he halted, as if a decision had been made.

"The boats from the _Clothilde_!" he announced, spreading his arms, proud of the inspiration that everyone else had failed to conceive.

"Gone, sir."

Jack's arms fell, his face going slack. "What?"

"Gone," Gibbs repeated, lower but firmer.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Is that the only word you know? You're beginning to sound like Cotton's blessed bird. By the way," he muttered, craning his neck skyward. "Where is that wretched beast?"

"Probably knows enough to stay on board," mumbled someone unseen in the group.

Jack spun around, with a black look, but no confessions were forthcoming.

"The _Clothilde_ boats are all gone," Gibbs began, mustering his courage, then qualified, "There were only four to begin with."

"Two sank," Moya reminded.

"And those that could manage headed off, Cap'n," offered Baines. "A couple o' us seen them heading out around the point."

"Into open waters, in this wind?" Jack shook his head, both puzzled and stunned.

"Not sayin' it were a wise move," Gibbs said, folding his hands behind his back as he rocked on his heels.

"Desperate people do desperate things," Kate added.

Jack nodded in vague agreement at Kate. He drew a tried hand along the curve of his mustache.

"It's too far to swim." Gibbs looked skyward, squinting one eye as he calculated. "This wind's probably stirred up some wicked currents out there, by now."

"I know that." Jack sighed, suddenly sounding resigned as he looked toward the _Pearl_.

"Not a soul's gonna swim it, what with yon beastie n' all," said Hughes. "We all heard the old man's tales."

Jack cast a withering look over his shoulder toward Rahal's retreating figure, heading back from the direction he had come.

"Given a day 'er two, we might build a raft that could make those waves," Gibbs suggested, attempting to be constructive.

It was a desperate suggestion, and Gibbs knew it, even as he said it, judging by his look. A day or two suddenly seemed like a very long time. Any approaching craft would be seen by the Black Pearl's watch well before it pulled alongside, allowing plenty of time for the worry-ridden men to prepare their own defense.

Jack silently nodded, his eyes going distant as the reality settled in.

"So… marooned." His shoulders slumped with the concession, but he soon straightened. "Very well, then, we'd best make ready. That sun's not going to hang up there forever. I make it we have maybe another three hours of daylight. Fire is what the man says they fear, mates. So, fire it shall be! You know what's to be done."

"Fences and buildings?" Gibbs queried, confirming as opposed to inquiring.

"Any where, Mr. Gibbs. Any where, by any means with anything," Jack repeated slowly and distinctly. "Fires, torches, faggots, fire pots, candles, lamps, and any other manner of light. Make it so!"

Like quail from a covey, the pirates broke in a mad scramble for anything that would burn.

Gibbs stepped tentatively closer, leaning as he lowered his voice. "There be certain _benefits_ of takin' a sugar plantation, Cap'n." He gave his eyes a conspiratorial roll. "There be near t' twenty casks of rum, at the least, down in that shed on the docks."

"Dock?" Puzzled, Jack craned his neck.

"Aye, ye'll not have had time to notice, but there be a wharf, n' waters deep enough t' navigate, there at the mouth of the river, through those trees."

"Figures they would have some sort of facilities," Jack said, nodding.

Isolated as a plantation was, ships would be its only connection to the outside world, both for bringing the goods necessary to live, but also to take away the farm's yield. Navigable waters would have been cornerstone for whoever had initially established the plantation.

"Very well, then, grog it is. Fetch up as much as you might. Could be we'll all be in need of any form of false courage we can manage."

A large grin of relief broke out across Gibbs' wide mouth. "Aye, sir!"

"And mind!" Jack called, halting Gibbs in mid-stride. "We'll be in need of clear heads and sharp eyes." He leaned toward Kate and added under his breath, "But at least, enough for a steady hand. A bit of false courage might enhance us all, before this night is done."

Jack waited for Gibbs, and the others, to be well away, before he turned to Kate. He began to reach for her hand, but then had second thoughts and pulled away. "Sorry, darling. I never meant…"

"I know." She touched her fingers to his mouth, halting his apology. "It was my decision to come." She smiled, faintly, tracing the curve of his lip.

Jack took her by the wrist and kissed her fingertips. "I _will_ see you safe," he whispered, his eyes searching hers.

She kissed the same fingers, and then touched them to his lips. "I know that. Do you really believe that there's… things out there in the water?"

Jack snorted. "I believe that _they_ believe. From there, it barely matters."

"But Moya said…"

"Moya said that he saw overloaded boats founder and sink… in the dark. It could have been the… dahlam, or whatever that thing is supposed to be," he said, with an irritated flip of his hand. "It could have been a monster from the deep. It could have been a crocodile, a porpoise or a sea cow, all of which I have seen capsize a boat. Or, it could have been Calypso herself, rising up. Fear is fear, and as long as _they_ are believing that, we aren't going anywhere." He sighed, kicking mindlessly at the dirt with the heel of his boot. "I do wish Thomas were here, that's for bloody sure. He has spent near his entire life on that side of the world, knows the Arabic world far better than I. He could probably shed a bit o' light on this muddled morass."

It was an enticing thought: having Thomas there would have been an added comfort; two sane heads were always better than one, especially when it came to trying to overcome panic-ridden wild imaginations. Something else, however, was pressing on her mind.

"Did you notice something about Rahal, when I showed him the book, a few minutes ago?"

With a tight-lipped smile, Jack nodded as he kicked at the sand. "How did he know it came from the ship?" He looked up under his brows. "Interesting question, isn't it?"

Thinking of Rahal made Kate think of the journal, and thinking of the journal led her to think of the symbols and drawings within. And thinking of those…

"I just remembered where I've seen those same markings, the symbols, the ones we saw on the ship."

"And?" Jack was wary, but his brows arched expectantly, urging her to explain.

"Down there."

A nervous smile moved Jack's mouth, curling one lip with uncertainty. "Down… where?" He seemed to know already what she was going to say, but needed to hear it, in the hopes that he was wrong.

"Down there, the cellar…" Her blood began to race as the recollections became clearer.

"You mean where Perrineau met his untimely demise? Hope the bastard went slow; hope they ate him, one bite at a time." He snapped out of his machinations. "You saw them down there?"

"I'm sure I did." In a spate of enthusiasm, Kate turned and started down the path. Jack caught her up in a few strides, and seized her by the arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded with an imperious look, planting his hands on his hips. "Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"Down there."

"Down where?" He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the house. "There?"

He shook his head without even waiting for her reply, his ornaments rattling with the force. "Not… bloody… likely," he said with singular emphasis on each word.

"Aren't you curious to see if they're the same?"

"Nope." He crossed his arms, imposing himself between her and her goal. "I don't give a bloody damn. What the blazes difference would it make, anyway?"

Blinking, Kate rocked back, surprised by the question and his indifference. "Well, I don't know," she stammered. "I just thought it might help… figure this out."

"Very well, let's just suppose, in this supposition of yours, they are the same."

She already recognized the signs of Jack settling in to prove a decision he had already made, and was deeply entrenched in his convictions. The chances of him changing his mind weren't bloody likely.

"What would that tell us, eh?"

Kate closed one eye with the effort of thinking. "That… someone from the ship might have survived after all, and that they were down in the cellar, too."

"I see," he said, nodding with exaggerated interest. "And where would said survivor be now?" He gave her a boring look, his brows lifting to coax the answer he already knew. "Exactly," he concluded, in lieu of her answer. He stabbed a victorious finger in the air. "Dead! Just like all the rest. So what benefit is there, in the knowing, if there is nothing more to know than what we already know?" He barely gave it a second's pause. "I thought not."

He spun her around by the shoulder and urged her toward the encampment, fluttering his fingers. "Off you go, now!"


	15. Chapter 15: Circling the Fires

Chapter Fifteen: Circling the Fires

**Like** a chorus of overgrown woodpeckers, the sound of furious woodcutting echoed from Bienveillant's grounds, along with the grinding creak of fences and siding being rent apart, with the accompaniment of the heavy chunking sounds of logs being split into firewood.

Every means of fire was fashioned, with every resource available. The island might have been void of living things, every morsel of food gone, but with tenacious searching, many of the day-to-day materials were still attainable. Frayed ends of rope lengths were dunked in tar. Reeds from the river's edge were gathered and bound; once lit, they would rain sparks on whoever carried them, but the shortcoming was deemed a minor problem. Cloth or sacking was knotted around the end of sturdy sticks, or pieces of broken fence slats or furniture, then left to soak in tar, lamp oil or anything else flammable.

As the work details got under way, and Kate found more than enough to keep her busy. With axing, hauling, prying, sharpening, stacking, and all manner of physical labor, there was an outbreak of injuries. Knowing the men's proclivity for avoiding her attentions as caretaker Kate took to hovering, watching like a Mother Superior for the first signs of cuts, bleeding, blisters, splits and other incidents of damaged flesh. She caught a few clandestinely trying to chew out the splinters—some being nearly the length of her little finger—or clapping a hand over their mouth to muffle their pained exclamations, when they burned themselves at the smelting pots as they poured shot.

There were many "minor" slashes, classified as such since they stopped bleeding on their own, after an hour, or so. There was also a major one, considered as such by Jack, since it didn't stop bleeding after nearly two hours. Ultimately, it would require being sewn, but no one was willing to concede Kate the time to do so.

With her blood box—as Jack called it, since it only came out when there was blood—still onboard the _Pearl_, Kate sent some of the men scavenging through the house, slave quarters and grounds, with a mental list: needles, thread, ointments, salves, vinegar—for burn compresses and astringent for cuts and splinters—cloth—for ripping into bandages—and, last but not least, given all the splinters, tweezers.

Dissatisfied with the results, and tiring of being rebuffed, Kate opted for a task that would be more fitting of her strength and skills, and headed for the gardens to see what might be gleaned. In the Highlands, the kitchen gardens had been an herbal treasure trove, a veritable pharmacopœia. Many required special preparation, in order to be at their optimum value, but some were ready _in situ,_ just waiting to be picked and used. Aloe would be a first choice, but given the absence of that, plantain, pennyroyal, garlic, comfrey or houseleek would do nicely for the injuries _du jour_.

At first, the stonewalled kitchen garden was so overgrown and disheveled, Kate's efforts appeared to be an exercise in futility. But as she kicked around through the weeds, she soon found a few squashes and cucumbers hiding under the umbrella-like leaves. Love apples, lush and red, had toppled from their trellises and were growing in a tumbled mass across the ground. She discovered some baskets left propped along the walls, and began filling them with peppers, onions, carrots and peas, that were dried in their shells, but still good enough for salmagundi.

The smell of dirt underfoot, the sharp greenness of weeds, and freshness of grass, gave her a grounded sense of Earth. She had forgotten how much she had enjoyed working in the gardens with the pirates' wives, barely a week before, and in the Highlands, months—no years—before that.

At one point, as Kate stood to straighten her back, her eye caught the herb gardens, just beyond the scullery shed, and she soon found herself there, industriously weeding, pruning and dead-heading. Laid out in the classical geometric style, with a central circle and sundial, rose bushes and benches, the herb garden's original gravel paths and tidy stone-edging were still intact, but barely visible amid the vegetation gone rampant.

She found an abandoned trug on a bench, and began filling it with bay, thyme, basil, parsley, chives and oregano, the herbs that she knew could be used immediately. Thinking of Mr. Kirkland, she began gathering bundles of those that would require drying, tying them up with blades of dried grass.

Muscles in her legs and back complaining, Kate gradually succumbed to that state of mind that befalls someone when they are deep in the throes of gratifying physical labor, the immediate world slipping away as she became lost in her work.

**********

_**Suffering**__ blazes! The woman's trying to put me in me early grave!_

Jack had called Kate three times, as he circled the garden. She leaped like a shot quail—Finally!—when he was but a few paces away. It struck him odd that she didn't hear him; she always seemed to have a second sense of where he was. It was bloody difficult to sneak up on her; had to be a testimonial to how involved she was with whatever in the blazes she was doing.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" He boiled around the stonewall, and through the gate, sputtering with the indecision of just exactly which piece of his mind he was to give her first.

Pressing a startled hand to her chest, Kate closed her eyes as she gulped for air. "Right here."

Aware that he was huffing like a teapot, he paused to catch his breath. It was a blessed miracle that he had caught a glimpse of that copper hair moving about the greenery. He could have easily spent the rest of the day scouring about, near frantic.

_Bunch of clam-brained dolts of a crew! They can sniff out rum at a thousand paces, and a whore in a room full of biddies, at five thousand—but let them try to keep track of one, single woman—the ONLY one on the entire God-forsaken island—and they all suddenly become deaf and blind._

Elbows pumping, Jack pushed his way through the plants, not caring to take the time—nor effort—to follow the path. "No one knew where you were."

Resting her hands on her hips, Kate scowled, her heavy angel-wing brows nearly touching. "I told you I'd be here."

"No, you didn't," he retorted, pulling up a short distance away. _No need in getting too close, until we're sure if she's going to swing something._

"Yes, I did."

"Did not."

"Did, too!" she countered firmly. "You said 'All right, fine,' that you'd come get me, when you were through with whatever it was that you were doing."

He reared back, making a face. "Why would I say something daft like that? I didn't want you this far away, alone—and you know that!" he finished with an accusing finger.

She looked around, holding out her arms in exhibition. "I'm just around the house."

Judging it to be safe—at least for the short term—he ventured closer. "I didn't know where you were," he said evenly between his teeth.

"I'm sorry." The fiery snap in her eyes abated somewhat. "I didn't mean to worry you."

He felt a bit evil, deriving so much satisfaction in seeing her drop her head, chastened.

_God, would she ever understand the worries? Hell, would she ever just listen and do as she was told?  
_

_What do you think?_

He wasn't angry—only mad with fear, of trying to find her.

_But best not let her know that—not just yet, at any rate._

He narrowed one eye, flapping an exasperated hand. "Having you about is always a worry. Besides, what's so all bloody interesting here?"

"I was just weeding a bit," she sighed, blotting the side of her face with the back of her hand.

Amid the greenery, her eyes had gone blue, the corner of her mouth, that always seemed to want to curl up on its own, did so now. Between the wind and her labors, that maddening tangle of hers had bloomed into a wild bush around her head, and she brushed some of it back with her arm. She was red-faced from exertion, that same bright-eyed, breathless flush as when he had just bedded her. A strand of hair was stuck in a rivulet of sweat collecting in the crease of her neck.

_None of that!_

He closed his eyes, looking away as she bent to retrieve something, giving him a view of her behind that was far too admirable.

_Bloody hell! Me goods were noticing, even if I'm not. Worse than me blessed compass. _He slapped away the thought. _No time for that now._

He blinked several times, his face falling slack. "Weeding?"

"Yes, you know—cleaning up." She paused, twisting as she looked around the low-walled garden. "It looks like it's been ignored for quite a while."

_Bloody hell! Would this woman ever get her fill of cleaning? Will she not be satisfied, until the whole world is in order?_

"The whole place is deserted!" he beseeched to the sky. "And you're cleaning!"

"Not actually _cleaning_, just…weeding." She looked up into his perturbed glare and flared. "Well, excuse me! I can't help it! I can't bear to see all of this go to waste."

"They're flowers," he pointed out, barely patient.

"Not just flowers." She softened, casting a loving eye, lowering her voice, as if afraid of disturbing the plants' repose. "It's an herb garden, and a nice one. There's a treasure trove, here. Just the rosemary and sage alone is a bonanza, besides all the lavender…. and the rosebushes," she added, her voice wavering.

Somehow, he doubted the herb garden was what Barker had in mind, when he had spoke of riches.

He slumped, deflated by the wistful sound in her voice. His mouth had suddenly gone dry; he needed a drink, badly. _Where's the bloody rum, when you need it?_ "You fancy all this, don't you?"

Avoiding his gaze, her eyes reverently traveled from one plant to another. "I've always loved flowers. I learned about herbs when I was young, from a gardener we had, and then more in the Highlands," she finished, her throat tightening.

Jack watched as Kate fondled a flowering head, with a tenderness that brought a surge of jealousy. She broke off a leaf, crushed it in her fingers and held it to her nose, her eyes closing in appreciation. The collection of moisture at her neck broke free, and made a delicious journey down her chest, between her breasts.

"I've missed it." She looked up, finally meeting his gaze, her cheeks reddening further. "Working here just made me feel useful."

"You're of use to all of us," he said, trying to keep a level tone. "Well, maybe some more than others," he qualified, seeing her standing there, knee-deep in the plants like some verdant nymph. He gulped, and straightened. "Believe me, if it's using you're wanting, I can think of far better uses than this."

Jack muttered several black oaths, calling himself a number of vile things, as he drew a tired hand down his mustache. It had never occurred to him that something on land could hold any sort of fascination for anyone. The ardent regard in her eyes told him exactly that: a dream, a calling that was not to be denied. For the first time, he saw her in a rare, heretofore, unseen moment of allowing herself to wish.

_Who would have thought?_

He looked around, shaking his head. "Can't imagine, for the life of me, how the men could have overlooked something so blatantly valuable." His gaze circled up to hers and he sobered. "And, if you were of such a mind, what would you do with all this?"

One corner of her mouth curled as she considered the pleasure of the possibility. "Oh," she began, thoughtfully looking about. "Cut it; dry it. The garlic, over there, looks ready; that would have to be dug, and then dried."

"I like garlic," he nodded approvingly. _Things were looking up._

"It makes a good poultice, too," she added, smiling at his attempt to be amenable. "Boiled and mashed with onions, it's good for boils, and hives, and rashes." Her words quickened as her enthusiasm built. "There's also southernwood for cramps, and tarragon for the flux, and wormwood for sprains and bruises, and keeping away fleas…"

Swaying, Jack held up a hand, biliousness ousting his need for a drink. "I think I've heard enough!"

He caught himself smiling at her, his own throat tightening, with the realization of having finally found something that pleased her, something that she wanted. The wistfulness in her voice tugged at his heart, while a sickening ball gripped his stomach. Rarely, did he hear her say anything wishful; rarely did she make demands, or even a passing request. Blessedly difficult to give someone what they wanted, if there were no way of knowing what that might be.

He looked around in horror. _Plants, flowers, dirt… roots!_ _Bloody hell! Was this what she wanted?_

From the beginning, whether she knew it or not, he had been pledging that she would have whatever she asked. God knew, the woman asked for blessed little; just getting her to ask for coffee, of a morning, was to be considered a small victory. But, those pledges had been made with visions, and intentions, of fripperies: jewels, frocks, fineries, and all those little things that most women—in his own experience, at any rate—claimed they couldn't live without.

True enough, her very first day aboard, she had asked for clothing, but she had been naked as a newborn at the time. It had been a reasonable request, to be sure. Since then, to date, she had voiced requests for thread, and… and…

"So." He swallowed down the ball of ice that rose in his throat. "Do you want this place?"

Kate's face went momentarily blank. "You mean… the whole thing?"

She gave him one of those blue-green looks that saw through to his soul. How could he say "No" to that? God help any man that tried to deny her. If they did, they were of a better cut of cloth than he, by a damn sight.

The bald-faced truth was, he couldn't, he could not, tell her "No". He was putty in her hands, to do with as she wished.

_But this! This? This!! Bloody woman!_

His gut churned. _What if she said "Yes?" What if this was her choice?_

"Sure, why not?" he heard himself say, flipping a hand as he instilled as much casualness in his voice as could be managed, considering he could barely breathe.

Kate looked as if he had just suggested robbing a church. "It belongs to someone else."

"Who?" he demanded, with a sweeping gesture toward the deserted plantation. "They're gone. And every law in the land knows that possession bears the proof."

It was difficult to consider, but he knew full well she wouldn't be with him forever. It was his considered opinion, and experience, that no heaven lasted forever. It had all been too good to be true. Living on a ship was wretchedly difficult, most particularly for a woman, and having to live among those scabrous louts of a crew didn't help matters any. Women preferred anchorages, a place to call theirs. She couldn't be with him, not always, not yet.

_But here?_ He looked around again, forcing himself to be objective. _Not all bad_, _all things considered,_ he equivocated. _It would take a lot of fixing up. God knew the woman could clean! That, in and of itself, would provide her with Heaven._

The wind blew, and a chill crept across his shoulders.

_Not here! Someplace, sure—absolutely. But, not here. Not now, not so soon! If there is any power or deity about, not now!_

The corner of Kate's mouth quivered with a smile, as suspicion glimmered in the back of her eyes as she called his bluff. "You're not going to get rid of me that easy."

For the moment, he would take that as a "No"; she hadn't said "Yes", so it had to be "No." _Maybe?_ He shook his head, batting a hand. _Can't think about that, not now. _

He needed rum, and badly, to wash away the taste of the whole insufferable ordeal.

"Well." Arms extended for balance amid the plants, he picked his way closer. "In that case, I suppose a compassionate commander would be duty-bound to want to acquire all these significant bits—with the concern of his crew at stake, of course."

Her eyes lit, a look he could never refuse, as if he could ever refuse her anything. It had to be those cursed eyes!

"Very well, then," he sighed in resignation, riding a wave of magnanimous. "Start your list; I'll have Gibbs send 'round some men to help."

"Thank you, Jack." Bouncing like a schoolgirl, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. "I promise, you won't regret it."

_Aye, well, I've heard that one before._

_What is more important, what she wants, or what you want?_

_Stupid voice! No competition there! What good is a conscious, if it can't ask any better questions than that?_

"That remains to be seen," he muttered, pulling away and seizing her hand. "C'mon, and we'll…"

"But, Jack!"

She jerked away, and he spun back around and propped one hand on his hip as he gave her a minatory finger and a sharp eye. "I'll not have you out here, alone, with God knows what lurking about. When Gibbs sends the men, then you can come back, but not until!"

***********************

**With **Rahal's words of warning ringing in their head, the work details stripped the deserted plantation of any and everything that could possibly be burned. By sundown, the overall appearance of the grounds had changed dramatically. Long stretches of fencing was gone, the posts left standing like long, single- filed sentries. The chicken coop, dovecote, boiling shed, smokehouse and hog pens had been stripped of their siding, as well as the stall partitions in the stables.

Being overly anxious, the central fire was lit when night was but a faint suggestion, the shadows still distinct at everyone's feet. A brand from the cook fires set off the logs, chinked with dry grasses and tinder, with a crackling whoosh, sparks spiraling up in thick curls of smoke. The wind fanned the flames into a glowing inferno in no time.

Clinging to the theory that, "if one is good, a lot would be much more better," to put it in the colloquial terms, smaller fires popped up, dotting the perimeter of the encampment, connected by a picket fence of torches either stuck in the ground, or bobbing with the movement of those walking their posts. Fires, torches, faggots, candles, fat lamps, lanterns, or just bowls filled with melted tallow and a piece of string for a wick, were employed. It could have been a fairyland of light, a festive celebration, had it not been for the ominous cloud that was hanging over everyone. Darkness framed them in an impenetrable wall; no one dared violate it, yet the fires held it at bay.

Most of the alcoholic drink—rum, whiskey, port, wine, brandy, hard cider or sherry—had been seized and consumed the night before, when ignorance had been bliss. A cask of rum was brought from the storehouse near the river, and Gibbs supervised the mixing of it into grog. Always scrupulous in the demands of his duties, he found it necessary to taste-test the concoction of rum, river water and foraged lemons well over a half-dozen times, until it was declared presentable for the discerning tastes of the pirates of the _Black Pearl_. With naught but grog, they were left to face the terrors of the night in an unfortunate state of near-sobriety, to hear them tell it.

"Keep a sharp eye," Jack called needlessly. "Watches are to be changed on the hour. Don't want someone eaten, just because someone else was caught napping."

As Jack had warned Kate, no pirate was ever without his weapons, but the basic sword and pistol suddenly seemed woefully inadequate. The compound bristled with scavenged weapons, not only of the standard variety, but every farming implement that could possibly be applied, offensively, or defensively, had been stockpiled, at the ready. Some men clutched their weapon in their fist, jumping at every fire pop, or clatter of something dropped. Some were successful at the their charade of calm, while others feigned sleep, cradling their weapons like a precious child as they dozed. The encampment was a religious Tower of Babel, every charm, token, amulet, hex drawing and talisman, from every corner of the world, in evidence around the fires, the faint sounds of chanting and prayers drifting on the night breeze.

As it was, the night meal consisted of the same as breakfast: salmagundi, made with anything the foragers could collect that could conceivably be put in a pot. The morning's fare had been barely more than enriched broth, but by evening, fruits of the sea—fish, oysters and crabs—and fruits of the earth—nuts, fruits, wild onions and yams—fortified it into something heartier. It wasn't the most appetizing to look at, but when one was hungry appearances often didn't matter. The more remarkable feature was the way it was served, out of an iron kettle, with a silver ladle into everything from blue-flowered china bowls, to battered trenchers, some men at with cumbersome wooden spoons, while others held ornate silver service, with an elegantly swirling "P" engraved on the handle; on the long wooden tables, where everyone ate, crystal goblets sat next to dented pewter or tin. The house and grounds had been well scavenged, and nothing was going to waste.

Circles drawn, perimeters established, and bellies filled, the pirates settled in for the night.


	16. Chapter 16:Delivered on the Wind of

**Chapter Sixteen: Delivered on the Winds of the Night**

**The** flames flared and danced on the pirates' weathered faces as they lounged and milled about. Some of the men produced instruments, either personal ones, or ones that had been pilfered from the plantation. They played without their usual abandon, but with enough levity to provide a distraction, and lighten the mood, somewhat.

"The more they can maintain something near normal, the more likely they can keep their wits," Jack noted quietly.

At one point, as Kate strolled through the camp, she caught Jack staring into the darkness, at the _Pearl's_ lamps glimmering in the distance. Undecided, if she should leave him to his privacy, she quietly slipped beside him. Intent on his ship, he didn't move, or acknowledge that he knew she was there.

"I'm salving me concerns with images of what I'm going to do to those blighters, once I catch them—given I catch them," he qualified ruefully. "Which I will," he added with vehement conviction, "if it takes me the remainder of me days. Spent ten years getting her back, from someone who's treachery, and soulessness, would put any of those wretches to shame."

Kate reached back deep into the stories Gibbs and others had told her, to retrieve a name. "Barbossa. Wasn't that his name?"

She had never heard Jack utter the name, but the faceless personage always seemed to shadow him. Even now, he didn't seem pleased at hearing her speak the name.

"Aye, most worthless piece of gull bait the tide was ever to wash in. Tracking down those cods would be a tea party, compared to running around the world after him."

Heaving a sigh, he reluctantly turned from his ship, taking Kate by the elbow. "C'mon. We won't be going anywhere on any ship, if I don't have a crew to man her."

He guided Kate under a live oak near the central fire, and deposited her on a limb that swept down to nearly the ground, leaving her to idly chat with those nearby. Occasionally, she would shift uneasily, and look around. No one was paying any attention, or even looking her way, but there was no denying the sense of eyes on her, watching, being stalked.

Different people react to tension in different ways. Pirates were no exception. Underneath all the façadel, they were people, too, contrary to popular opinion. Men of the sea, they had faced every terror nature could throw at them. As pirates, they had faced blade and canon, and every manner of destruction imaginable. There was not a coward among them. But this was different: unseen and unknowable, lurking in a strange darkness, preying on what scared every human being: the unknown.

Too tense to sit, Jack and Gibbs rose and sauntered from one fire to another. Clapping someone on the back, Jack would crouch down as he quipped with another, the flames glinting on his gold-laden smile as he laughed. In bare seconds, he would have them smiling, tentative, but easier, nonetheless. The use of humor to ease pressure was worth its weight in swag, and he knew it.

Moving on, Jack made a point of pausing with the ones who sat alone. These were the individuals that would need extra bolstering, the ones who had meditatively turned inward. He spent extra time with them, goading them to join in at another fire; some he was forced to acquiesce to their desires, leaving them to their private council.

Jack was doing what he did best, shepherding his flock, and garnering their courage through cajoling and distraction. Granted, these men were pirates, fearsome, but fearless. He seemed to understand the power of his position, the impact of personal attention and encouraging words from their captain. From what Kate learned from Thomas, his longest and best friend, Jack was a natural-born leader; men instinctively followed him, no matter how pestiferous personally he might be. It was a God-given gift; those born without it, could only dream of it. Some men had it, and some didn't.

Watching him make his rounds, Kate wondered if Jack realized his gift, or if he just took it as the natural way of things. Just as a short person would never know what it was like to be tall, Jack would have no reference as to what it would be to be otherwise, he would never know what it would be like for someone like Barker, to whom everyone took an instant dislike. Jack knew his talents, and he knew his charms, and he used them well.

His mission complete, Jack came to sit next to Kate. Deep in a discussion with Baqqi, regarding the watches, she felt his hand against her leg, his fingers moving in subtle invitation. In the cover of the shadows, her hand found his, their fingers interlacing. Thinking he only sought a temporary connection, she gave an encouraging squeeze, but his grip persisted. Unwavering in his conversation, he slid a sideways glance, the corner of his eye twitching with the barest of winks, and then drew their clasped hands against his thigh. The worn leather of his palm protector was rough against hers as his thumb stroked the back of her hand, his soft calluses brushing her skin as he traced the shapes of her knuckles.

At first, Kate wasn't positive if she had felt something, rather than heard it, a brush of air stirring her hair. The tree limbs overhead had a tendency to deflect the wind, moving the leaves in disquieting ways, playing tricks on the eyes, giving the illusion that something had passed.

The second time came within moments, stronger. Given the leathery flap of wings, it could have just been a bat, on its nightly forage—Had she heard them, or only thought so?—except to create such force, the bat would have had to have been nearly the size of a sea eagle. An owl, then, she thought, sweeping past, diving after its prey. But what prey? There was nothing, no birds chittering in the bushes, no cry of animals, not even the faint, leaf-rustling scamper of mice.

In that same instant, several men paused in mid-conversation, casting their eyes skyward. One guard ducked, dodging as if being swooped upon, but there was nothing there. Another across the way, cried out, his arms churning the air like a grounded swimmer, yelping.

It hadn't been her imagination.

In the midst of that thought, something brushed past Kate's head again, a gargoyle-like head, ebony, lifeless eyes, slavering mouth, and curved talons coming out of nowhere, reaching for her face.

Shrieking, Kate threw her arms over her head. Jack had already sprung to his feet, sword in hand, before she let out a second cry, driving her down to the ground with one hand, while he viciously swiped with the other. A snarling, rabid hiss came from behind, swooping by, with a flapping whir that echoed in the head more than the ear.

The camp was in turmoil, bellowing and shouting, it seemed that they were being attacked from every direction, like a swarm of enraged bees, yet there was nothing solid. Panicked shots fired wildly into the air, the empty weapons being blindly swung, swords flashing hot red in the light.

_They come from where dark and shadow meet, delivered on the winds of the night._

A blow came from behind, the force knocking Kate off her knees. Screaming, she flailed as something tangled in her hair. Serpent, but canine, with a whipping tail, it ducked in and out of focus, materializing from nothing, and then disappearing into the same.

Swearing, Jack yelled, pressing Kate harder to the ground while slicing the air. A mirage-like shimmer hovered over them, distorting the shape of Jack's sword as he fought, with fractured glimpses of savage teeth and claws darted in and out of the dark. From across the encampment, Kate glimpsed from under her arm of the same disturbances, as if looking through a fire's heat, except these were moving, at an alarming rate of speed.

The camp was a hellish vision of the pirates silhouetted against the firelight, swords flashing in the firelight, firebrands and faggots brandished in a savage rhythm. Men fell to the ground, and scurried to escape. Attacks came without warning, and then dissolved. Heard, but not seen. Seen, but not visible, knowing they were there, and yet not tangible enough to be sure of anything.

Gibbs burst out of the chaos, a torch in each hand, his eyes gleaming with the brightness of battle. He tossed one torch to Jack, and together they lashed out, the flames thrumming the air with the force of each swipe, one murderous cut after another. A pained bellow came from the far side of the circle. Kate looked to see it had been spurred not by a demonic attack, but an accidental blow squarely between the shoulder blades with a spade.

Jack and Gibbs battled in unison; one anticipating the other's every move. Kate spread her hands wider, shielding herself from not only the demons, but also the sparks that showered down from their torches. Jack swore again, grunting with the effort of each swipe. There was another scream, a startled, animal cry, as if it had been hit, that faded, echoing as it spiraled up into the night.

Another shout, shrill with terror, came from further away; one of the men writhed on the ground, tumbling as if attacked by a dog, but there were only the amorphous glimmers of wings, head, and jaws, never materializing enough to be seen. One of his mates raced to his rescue, with a two-handed downward slash with the firebrand he bore, unmindful of the sparks and ash that rained down on the very one he sought to save.

A curdling scream, shrill with sheer terror, came from the opposite direction. In the moving shadows of fire and men, it was impossible to see who was being attacked, his image blurred as he rolled and thrashed at his unseen foe. Men rushed forward as he was bodily lifted from the ground by invisible forces; a tug of war ensued, between the rescuers and the demons, first by an arm, then a leg, and then, he was gone, a tremulous wail piercing the night, pitifully fading.

A single wrawl, as a she-wolf would call the pack, punctuated their departure, and they were gone.

It was over.

***********

**Holding **his torch high, Jack bent to help Kate scramble up from the ground, as Gibbs rushed away to assess the damage.

"Are you all right?" Still caught in the fever-pitch of battle, Jack's grip was a vise on her arm. His eyes had hardened to coals, burning cold with fear as he patted her over, ignoring her testimonies, until he was satisfied that she was unharmed. His blood still coursing, he dusted the dirt and leaves from her skirts, with a bit more force than necessary, forcing a smile that faltered almost at the instant of its creation.

"Thought there for a minute the bloody thing was going to get caught up in that maddening tangle of yours."

Gibbs appeared at Jack's elbow, flushed from the fight, face and chest agleam in sweat.

"How bad?" Jack asked without preamble.

"None so much." Gibbs was clearly relieved to report that bit of good news. "Some scorches and burns, couple o' gashes, but overall, besides bein' bowels-gone-to-water scairt, they're fine… exceptin' one, might be needin' a bit o' care," he added, shifting his attention to Kate.

"Where?" Kate was already hard on Gibbs' heels as he led the way across the camp.

"Over here," Gibbs explained over his shoulder. "Bleedin' like a stuck pig, he is. Never seen anythin' like it," he marveled as he strode purposefully through the camp's aftermath.

He halted and crouched next to a hunched figure that was pressing his sleeve to his head. It wasn't until she knelt before him, and the light caught his face as he looked up, that she saw it was Baines.

"Slit like a razor," was Gibbs' final proclamation.

Gibbs had that rare quality, of being to express so much, in so few words. In his bald-faced way, he had described Baines' injury, with articulated eloquence. Kate couldn't disagree with his assessment: the three parallel gashes, running from brow to hairline, slit his skin with the precision of a surgeon's knife. He had also been correct in his other observation: Kate had seen pigs butchered, every fall of her life, and it was a messy business.

Head wounds tended to bleed horribly, and Baines' was no exception. Blood goes nearly black in fire or candlelight, virtually masking his face, the whites of his eyes stark against the glistening dark. He smiled shakily, wiping to clear his mouth, before he spoke.

"Never felt a thing, sir," he said, more than a little baffled. "Didn't know, neither, 'til I looked down at meself. For a moment there, I wondered who the hell bled all over me… beggin' yer pardon, sir."

"We'll be needing rum," Kate instructed to whomever might be listening. "Make sure it's not grog. Find some clothes, too," she yelled after the two that scampered away.

Kate hadn't realized that she was shaking, until she tried to tear away a part of the hem of her shift, her fingers numbly groping at the fabric. Someone tossed Baines a piece of sacking as they passed, and he swiped his face, Kate noticing that he trembled harder than she. The rum she was finally delivered, and she dipped the shift piece in the cup, and began carefully dabbing away the blood. Her patient understandably hissed and writhed, when the liquor brushed the wounds, but otherwise remained stoical under her attentions.

"Saw an eagle take a fish once," one pirate observed dispassionately, pausing to watch. "Clawed 'em jest like that."

"I ain't no friggin' fish," Baines shot back good-naturedly. "Beggin' your pardon again, sir," he added hastily.

Intent on her task, Kate smiled faintly, acknowledging his attempts to defer to her being a woman. It was a strange relationship, one that didn't bear too close examination, lest one become utterly confused.

"This could probably be stitched," Kate suggested as casually as possible.

Even in the flickering dim of the firelight, she could see Baines blench at the thought. With her hands shaking as they were, and the lighting being what it was, Kate didn't relish the idea either. She looked longingly at the cup of rum, wishing it were something far more palatable, and steadying, like a good whiskey, or port. Baines gave her one of those pleading looks that made Kate wonder how grown men could become little boys again, so quickly.

"All right." Surrendering, she began to fashion a bandage from some extra pieces of cloth that had been brought. "We'll bind it tight, and see what happens."

Baines nearly exploded with relief, wincing at the movement.

"Here." Well aware of the pirate guidelines regarding the wasting of rum, Kate shoved the cup of remaining rum at him. "You'll need this. You're going to have a nasty headache in the morning."

At one point, Gibbs returned to report, peering interestedly at Baines. "I thought that old-timer said no one ever lived to tell about seein' those things," he said, swiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve.

Jack slid Gibbs a dry look. "Either he was mistaken, or lying. I'll allow you to your own conclusions." He paused, hesitant to ask what had to be asked. "Who was it?"

Gibbs sobered, clearly reluctant, as if speaking the name would be the final benediction on the life of the man lost. "Clemens."

Those near enough to overhear, dropped their heads in a brief moment of regret. There was little else they could do, except exchange glances, wondering if Clemens would be the only one, or if others would soon be joining the list of lost souls. Later, when the opportunity arose, at every social gathering, Clemens—and the others lost earlier that day—would be memorialized, by way of toasts and tales. Well watered with rum, the list of their accomplishments and merits would grow and flourish with each telling.

Finished with Baines, Kate moved through the camp, with Jack in close supervision, checking the others injured. As Kate ministered to their bodies, Jack attended to their spirits, with a quip and words of encouragement; if he had behaved any other way, they would have known something was amiss. Of course, Gibbs had been correct: a few minor burns, scrapes, and a sliced hand, which was closing nicely on its own. It was Petrov who had been hit with the shovel, the wind knocked out of him. Having recovered his breath, he was busily threatening Bandai, his assailant, with a smile, grog, and wide range of colorful, revenge-laden deeds. In the meantime, Gibbs seemed to be in three places at once: rallying the crew, while assaying the damages and reassigning the watches.

Slowly, the camp returned to its previous calm, if that's what it could be called. Feverishly stoked, the fires blazed with new vigor, the wind bellowing the flames, until they rumbled and sparked like the forges of Vulcan. Everyone inched a bit closer, in search of warmth against the chilling shock of their lost comrade, and the protection the fires offered, the smell of singed cloth and hair soon permeating the air The watches resumed their duties with a new sense of urgency. Some feigned sleep, while others made no such pretense. They all put up a confident front, but the tension was palpable, flinching at every sound, casting furtive glances skyward, their laughter coming a little too staccato, and their smiles just a bit too forced.

No one would be sleeping.

Once satisfied the camp was squared away, orders given and the injured tended, Jack led Kate back to their fire and a nearby stack of firewood. Fatigue was beginning to take hold, her limbs laden, as if filled with sand, a headache building in the top of her head. That morning seemed a dim memory, the quiet joy of luring Jack back into the expansive lushness of the bed, having been replaced by one shock after another. Now, her only driving force was to lie down, anywhere.

Jack had to have been near exhaustion, too. But he hid it with the same master's skill as he did everything else. He doffed his weapons, then took hers, the dull ache of relief when he lifted the heavy leather from her shoulders a sharp reminder of how much it had been dragging at her all day. He brought her with him as he dropped to the ground. Carefully arranging their weapons, within easy reach of his right hand, he guided her to his left. Propped comfortably against the wood, ignoring his self-imposed rules of deportment, he gathered her close, and gave a long sigh of complacent relief. A few of the crew milled about, or hunched at their fires, but no one seemed to take notice.

The rigors of the day began to take its toll, and Kate's eyelids grew heavy. With her head nestled under his chin, she watched as the camp went about its duties, changing the watches, replenishing the torches, or stoking the fires. The rise and fall of Jack's chest slowed, but his blood still pulsed faster than usual. She slipped her arms under his coat, and felt his solid warmth, his sheer presence enough to allay any fears.

"I'm sorry, darling," he said, at length.

Hanging on the frayed edges of awareness, Kate stirred, confused by his sudden turn. "For what?"

"This." He waved loosely, indicating their surroundings. "Maybe, if you had stayed aboard the _Pearl_... " He let the sentence fade, letting his implication complete his thought.

Kate sat up to look at him squarely. "Recriminations? Now?" She did a credible job of mimicking his characteristic snort, and settled back. "That would have left me out there, worried sick what was happening in here, and you in here, worried to distraction about what was happening out there."

He chuckled in uncomfortable acknowledgment. "You know me too well."

"Maybe better than you think," she said dryly. She cautiously spread her hand on his chest, his pulse reassuring under her palm. "We're exactly where we belong."

"Aye, but last night was feather beds and finery. Tonight, it's on the ground, like a wretched dog." He made a disgusted noise in his throat. "I can't even kiss you good-night properly."

A hand slipped under her bottom, and flexed; his hips moved ever so slightly, his meaning anything but subtle. His shirt gapped enough for her to slip her hand inside, his skin rippling at her touch.

"Add that to my account, then."

"You deserve better than the dirt," he said, his shoulders twitching irritably, as if her discomfort was a personal affront.

"It's grassy."

"Don't quibble on the details, darling." He closed one eye and imperiously peered down the long line of his nose. "You know what I mean."

"I've slept rougher, many a night."

Kate wanted to tell Jack of the nights she had slept outside, while in the Highlands, traveling and during the Rising, in the hopes of easing his concerns. But she wasn't sure that he would care to hear about her sleeping in the snow and sleet, with Brian's body spread over her for protection and warmth. Nor would he care to be told of the nights they built fragrant beds of pine boughs, and lay together watching the aurora borealis. Those were all bits of her past that were best kept locked away, to be brought out and nurtured only on cold nights, alone.

"And you know what I mean." She snuggled closer to help punctuate her point. "I don't need all that; all I need is you."

Crossing his ankles, Jack sighed in gratification. "All things considered, I consider meself to be coming out the winner on that arrangement."

In the aftermath of the confrontation, the night fell eerily quiet. Kate had never realized how comforting the sounds of the forest animals were, until they were gone. Even the querulous cry of an owl, or a nightjar would have been a welcome relief from the silence. Granted, there was still the chirp and whir of insects, but the chorus of the night was missing far too many voices. Under the circumstances, deep sleep was nigh impossible, but slowly the world around her faded, leaving Jack, his voice rumbling under her ear as he spoke quietly to his men.

A scream split the night. Kate hoped it was a screech owl, but instantly knew better. This one had a human quality, echoing, and then fading as it rode the night breeze. They both jerked to alert, Jack's hand instinctively reached for his pistol, but both knew in the same instant that it wasn't a threat.

"Was that what I thought it was?"

"Aye." Jack's throat moved as he swallowed, as he looked out into the blackness. "Those wretched beasts found someone."

"From the _Clothilde_?"

"Probably."

Jack's arms tightened, urging Kate to return to her place. His fingers brushed her ear, and then began rubbing slow circles on her back, making small shushing sounds, whenever she stirred.

*****************

**Kate **roused sometime in the night, with her head in Jack's lap. She hadn't really been sleeping, just hanging in a near-doze state, between vaguely still aware of her surroundings and succumbing to the peaceful escape. With the solid warmth of his thigh under her head and his coat was draped over her, still redolent of him, she felt cocooned and safe. Sensing that she had woken, Jack's hand tightened where it rested on her arm, the single gesture reassuring her of everything she needed to know: he was there.

Sighing complacently, she drifted back into her torpor.


	17. Chapter 17: In the Light of a New Day

**Chapter Seventeen: In the Light of a New Day**

"**We'll** split into threes, in two hour shifts," Jack told Gibbs over his morning coffee, "each man to be either gathering wood, standing his watch or sleeping."

"Ye look a bit stove in yerself, Cap'n," Gibbs observed, through a narrowed eye, shifting on his feet.

Jack sighed and shook himself, hovering over the steaming cup. "I'll do." He took a drink and half-choked. Making a face, he quickly looked to see if Kate were anywhere near. _This will never do! _"What is this?"

It would seem that he had just discovered the basis for at least a portion of Gibbs' evident uneasiness. "Ground, roasted nut shells and burned sugar cane scavenged from the pits over there."

Jack cautiously surveyed the immediate surroundings, beckoning Gibbs closer with a crook of his finger. "Has she…?"

Gibbs jerked back, knowing exactly to whom and what the question implied. "Not that I know of, Cap'n."

"This will not do… not a'tall," Jack grumbled, peering down his nose at the noxious brew. "What happened to the coffee we had yesterday?"

"Gone, used up, disposed of thinkin' as we'd be havin' resupply, by now." Gibbs' mouth pressed into a tight line, biting back several opinions regarding the mutinous crewmen, and their current state of isolation.

Jack had been contemplating the repercussions, worthy enough for those insubordinate miscreants currently aboard his ship, as well. It occurred to him that handing them over to Gibbs might be an even better punishment. The man had been sputtering with indignation from the moment they had learned of the treachery. His raging bellows could be heard from one side of the island to the other. Hell hath no fury, like an enraged Gibbs.

"I guess that's what we all get for thinking." Jack sighed, swirling the insidious brown liquid, then lit with a thought. "Perhaps _you_ should warn her."

"Me?" Gibbs goggled, falling back on his heels. "Check the articles, Cap'n. _That_ is not on the duty list."

*********

**Kate** woke with Jack's coat still over her shoulders. Half asleep, she explored cautiously with one hand to discover that he was already gone. No surprises there. With her eyes still closed, she caught snatches of his graveled voice carrying on the wind, from somewhere near the cook fires. She cracked open one eye and lying on her side, watched the camp go about its morning activities in a strange world, where the earth ran vertically.

She found Gibbs and Jack at the perimeter of her vision, standing beyond the cook fires, deep in conversation. She smiled; it appeared as though, once again, Jack was trying to convince Gibbs to do something neither one of them wanted to do. Poor Gibbs. Sometimes he was Jack's dumping ground; it was a good thing Gibbs had a broad back.

Oddly, Gibbs strode off, leaving Jack wearing the look of a man who had just lost his argument. Jack cast a tenuous look her direction as she sat up, finger combing the leaves from her hair. He filled a cup from a kettle and came her way.

"Good morning, luv!" he announced, briefly hazarding to look up from his careful balancing of the steaming liquid.

Kate looked skyward. It was a beautiful morning, as were most in the Caribbean. Breezier still than most for that early in the day, the sky was a blue so brilliant, it made her glad the tree leaves were there to help break the intensity. In spite of that, Jack seemed just a little over-exuberant, just a little too delighted.

"Good morning," she said through a yawn, blinking away the sleep.

Jack came up short a few steps away, as if he had just reached the end of a tether. Shifting on his feet, he cleared his throat, stammering. "It would seem conditions and state of affairs, such as they are, that not all matters, which we would like to think we can control, aren't necessarily that which we can…"

"Good heavens, Jack. Out with it."

Like a man facing a firing squad, he set his jaw and thrust the cup at her. "The coffee's bloody awful; hot bilge water would be more palatable."

Kate took the proffered cup, peering down into it. It did have a strange brownish-green color, and an odor that was even more unfamiliar. "What is it?" She tried to glean as much distaste from her voice as possible.

Jack took several tries at responding, finally settling with, "I'm told burned sugar cane and roasted nut shells," then cringed.

Kate smiled faintly. "During the Rising, we used browned oats—with egg shells, if we could find them—strained through moss. When I was a growing up, when times were hard, we used roasted acorns and dried chicory root." She cautiously took a sip, discovering the brew wasn't very hot, either. "Not Mr. Kirkland's, but the worst I've had."

It was a small lie, but delivered effectively enough, Jack slumped, his head dropping to his chest, deflating like a balloon with relief.

****************

**The** next morning found everyone a bit bleary-eyed and worn, the lack of sleep beginning to tell on everyone in the camp. To the man, including Kate, they all moved with a little less vigor, each step just a little more forced. Sailors were well accustomed to long stretches with little sleep, while dealing with the uncertainties of sea and storm. What they were living under now was a far different matter. And it was taking its toll, as testified by the hollow looks, and eyes not fully focused on their duties. And the more haggard everyone grew, the more likely mistakes were going to happen. Two men were injured—minor, to be sure—that very morning, from just such circumstances. Sooner or later, someone would grow careless, or doze off at the wrong time, and the results could be catastrophic.

They were only human; it was only a matter of time.

Kate had seen it before, during the Rising: the rush of battle dissolving into physical and mental exhaustion, men soaring with wild-eyed enthusiasm, whipped into a frenzy by blood lust, possibly for days, then collapsing into boneless lumps, immoveable by either threat or promise.

The wear was showing on Jack as well. Granted, he hid it better than most, but Kate could see it behind his eyes, and in the set of his mouth, as he measured his crew, wondering how much longer they were going to be able to last.

Kate's first order of business was to locate Baines and Kentwater, the injured the day before.

The scope of that task became instantly apparent. Kate spent the best part of an hour asking after either one, finally coming to the conclusion that they were doing everything, including collusion, to avoid her. Not that she could blame them; the prospect of being stitched was relished by no one. She had long discovered that threats of nasty scars bore no power of influence among pirates; they lived in a world where scars were a point of pride, even adornment. Threats of the wounds festering and growing putrid usually fell on deaf ears, too. Still, it was a personal affront, to have someone under her care go ignored. She pleaded her case to Jack, but was met with maddening indifference.

"It's their skin, luv." He rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Unless you're willing to hit them over the head, there's naught to be done."

"Don't you want healthy crewmen?"

One eye narrowed slightly, as he measured her assertion. "Yes, but one could easily argue they shan't be of much use, after a bout of needles being pulled through their skin."

Seizing her last desperate option, Kate propped her hands on her hips. "You're their captain; command them."

"And _you're_ their quartermaster." Jack winked, stabbing a finger at her. "Command them."

Kate curled a fist as she ground her teeth, biting back a number of retorts. "Oh!" was all she could finally managed. "Men!" was the next to bubble to the surface and break free.

******************

**During** her pursuant searches, Kate came across Jack staring across the water. She followed his line of sight, but it was an unnecessary exercise; she already knew his nidus, the _Pearl,_ stalwartly graceful on her anchors. Leaning fractionally toward her, he was drawn, willing her safe, a forlorn soul separated from its heart.

It was unusual—and not a small amount disturbing—to see him so still, absent of his usual animation. With one hand draped on his pistol, his mouth was immobile under his mustache's framework, its downward curve giving him a somber look. Swaying slightly at the wind's buffets, his sleeves billowed, the tails of his headscarf snaking at his shoulders. One might have thought he was idly watching the waves, had it not been for the white-knuckled grip on his sword, the tendons in his hand rigid under the skin.

Kate hesitated to violate his solitude; many men preferred to suffer alone, and he was in pain, his body eloquent with it. Still, she was driven by the need to help, console him, if at all possible. He didn't move, or acknowledge her approach, but something told her that he knew: a slight tip of the shoulders, his head canted just that bit more. She stopped behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"She'll be fine."

A faint shift of one shoulder was all that moved. "Really?" He sounded barely convinced, with a longing that tore at her heart.

"Sure, give them a little while longer, to realize their folly…"

Jack turned only enough to slide her a dubious look from the corner of his eye, her words dying as she realized her own folly. Time might not necessarily be what was needed; in fact, it could be the worst. When caught up in the throes of fear and superstition, clearer heads rarely prevailed. If anything, time only gave those who had commandeered the _Pearl_ opportunity to further fuel the fires of desperation, pushing them ever closer to irrational acts.

"They aren't being malicious; they're just scared."

His shoulders quivered, as if he were silently laughing. He dropped his head and slowly shook it. "You'll forgive me if I find little comfort in that thought. At least, she's still there," he sighed, half-relieved, half-resigned when he looked up.

"You really think they would leave?" It was a chilling thought, one that she hadn't imagined. It hurt to think that the very men she had nurtured, tended their wounds and written letters to their loved ones, would be the ones to take over the ship, leaving them stranded. _Pirates._ The word took on a whole new significance, the treachery of the world in which Jack had existed for so long taking on a new reality.

Mutiny. Marooned. They were just distant words to her, ones that were occasionally bandied about, with little tangible impact. Jack knew them both, their bitter weight hanging on him, overshadowing his every step. Nearly a third of his life had been spent recouping the losses of just such a violation. In a way, he'd never fully recovered.

"Not entirely. At best, they have barely a skeleton crew, including Kirkland." A glimmer of humor touched his eyes; they both knew how useless the ship's cook would be, when it came to matters beyond the galley. "Could be they're safe out there."

"You mean, if we went out there, those… things could follow us, we could wind up taking them with us?" Ordinarily, the _Pearl_ meant safety, but what if her crew were her peril? The demise of the _Hersilia_ still strong in her mind, no differently than Jack would have felt.

A grim irony ghosted across his face. "Something I haven't entirely not considered." He made a frustrated sound in his throat then closed his eyes, shaking his head, as if eliminating the thought. "And, if it's fire we're to be fighting those things with, then it would be blessedly easier ashore."

Ships and fire were mortal enemies; it could be argued more flames than storms had taken down ships. Jack seemed to be resigning himself to the possibility, that if they were to be killed, at least the _Pearl_ would be left whole.

The crew milled around them, but Kate, needing to touch him, to offer him some gesture of kindness, lightly put a hand on the fabric of his sleeve. "I'm glad you allowed me to come."

Jack's lashes fanned in dark crescents, hooding his eyes. "I don't recall having much say in the matter." It wasn't a reproach—well, maybe just a bit—but he was perceptive enough to understand her intentions, and was willing to take the steppingstone she had given.

"I would have hated being stuck out there, not knowing." It was the truth; Jack might have his hell, but she had hers, as well.

He jerked around, the bone at the side of his head arcing wide with the force, his eyes sharpened with conviction. "I'll see you safe, I swear." The solemn intensity in his voice took her back, unsure if his pledge was for her, or his benefit. His fist tightened. "If it means setting a torch to this entire wretched place, I'll do it."

"I'm not worried."

Her response caught him off guard; he blinked then softened, finding a humorous side.

"Well, that makes a grand total of one." Her intentions were working, at least a part of his tension falling away. The corner of his mouth lifted wryly. "Don't expect company anytime soon."

"I didn't mean to be a burden."

His hand rose and hovered near her cheek then fell away. "To not have you would be the burden." He flashed a gold and ivory smile, in a chameleon-like shift. "Not to mention that—at the moment, at any rate—I can't have you, at all." He glanced over his shoulder toward the house, with a combination of longing and loathing, his jaw twisting sideways in thought. "Maybe, we could reconsider…"

"Not in a life time!" Kate blurted out, following his look. She clutched her arms around herself, shuddering. "Let's just say, the thought turns several things cold."

"A bit ago, you couldn't wait to go back there."

"I've had time to think. I'm a woman, I'm allowed to change my mind."

He made a half-hearted leer. "Allow me be the first to know when your feminine wiles take another more fortuitous turn."

Kate squeezed his arm, her hand lingering on the hard curve. "She'll be fine."

They were interrupted by the sound of a distant voice calling him. With a wink, and a reluctant set to his mouth, he gave her hand a departing squeeze, and then assumed his commanding air as he ambled away.

******************

**Jack **stood watching the men of the _Black Pearl_ working, with a swelling sense of pride.

Crews were a matter of luck, but also a matter of making. The "who" of it was the luck: what souls were available—and of a mind to work—at what time, in what port. But that only made a conglomeration of men, no different than the random gathering of the very taproom, in which they had been recruited. A crew came from practice, bending, melding, molding, cajoling and threatening those souls into a single functioning unit.

Joshamee Gibbs was a genius when it came to that. He could whip a raw gaggle of men into a seamlessly functioning crew faster than any person he had ever met, at sea or landed. Truth be told, his first mate—and his honing skills—were a large reason why the _Black Pearl_ was so fast. Certainly, her hull design and sail displacement had a hand in it, but she would be a floundering scow, wallowing in the water, if it weren't for her well-drilled crew that moved without hesitation, and rarely a hand put wrong. Even now, laboring like a bunch of bondsman, they operated as a team, with a common goal, every man put to his best ability, organized so no effort went wasted. Of course, fear and self-preservation probably had a good hand in that mood, as well.

It would be a sad day when he lost Gibbs—in many ways.

He checked the sun, and then risked a glance over his shoulder, where Kate was tending Baines; she'd finally caught him, the poor bugger. Sooner or later, his was going to have to honor his pledge, and have Gibbs send a gardening detail with her.

Jack shuddered. _May each of them go with God._ He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy, including Hector Barbossa, dead though he may be.

Hopefully, Gibbs could work his magic, and find three or four that didn't mind toiling knee-deep in weeds. Luckily, it was Kate they would be working for; had it been anyone else, mutiny could be a threat. Nearly to the man, the crew thought the world of her, and would do nigh on to anything she were to ask. It could lead one to want to reconsider the rules regarding women aboard.

He wondered how she managed it. Was it the movement of her hips, when she walked? Or was it batting those eyes, when she wanted something?

_Hmm… might have to try that._

It was much later in the day, when Jack finally honored his promise, and ordered Gibbs to select three for garden duty. The day's labors had fallen into an easy rhythm by then, everyone acutely aware of what's to be done. At one point, Hughes approached from across the lawns, a battered green bottle swinging from his hand.

"Thought she could be needin' this, sir, knowin' how Mr. Kate appreciates a fine drink."

Jack took proffered bottle, and pulled the cork to sniff. It was brandy, not of the best quality, but seemed palatable enough; necessity and scarcity had a way of improving the quality of any drink. "Where'd you find it?"

"We wuz tearin' the slats from the bed, in the overseer's place, and found it." Hughes smiled, rocking on his heels with pride. "Guess we dinna have to be worrit about 'im comin' back for it, do we?"

Nodding grimly, Jack saw only a small portion of the irony that Hughes seemed to be enjoying—Scots were a curious lot, to be sure.

The sun was hanging in a burning orb, belted by the indigo clouds of a distant thunderstorm, the shadows creeping long and cool across the lawn, when Jack spotted the sight of the garden detail, returning. He had chuckled to himself at their hangdog looks, trudging behind her like a litter of recalcitrant puppies. Scanning their face, he jerked, and scurried to meet them.

"Where is she?" Jack demanded.

No one needed to ask to whom he referred; despite the pretenses to mask her gender, every pirate on the _Black Pearl_ knew who "she" was.

"We thought she was directly behind us, sir." Stevens wore the same blank, slightly dumbfounded look as his compatriots. "She said as much."

"Don't you sods ever mind anything more than your cocks? Do you see that sky? It's getting dark, and you've left her out there, alone! Get out of me way, and me sight," he growled with an irritated swipe as he elbowed his way through their ranks, to snatch up a torch. "Bloody oyster-heads!"

Mouthing a string of black oaths, Jack stabbed the torch into a nearby fire to light it, and stormed off, the bottle of brandy swinging in his hand, forgotten.

He craned his neck to see over the garden wall; for a heart-lurching moment, he thought the gardens to be empty. He let out a loud exclamation of relief, when he finally saw Kate bent over working in the deepening shadows, her lovely, round arse staring squarely at him.

"What the bloody hell, are you doing?" He churned around the wall and through the gate.

Smiling as she straightened, Kate looked mildly surprised to see him. She frowned momentarily at his question then shrugged him off. "I told them I would be right there. I just wanted to get this bit more done." She shook her head as she bound a bundle of stems with a length of grass. "Gardening certainly isn't their cup of tea."

"They're pirates, darling," he reminded her evenly. "Men of the sea. It's rare such a creature appreciates the feel of dirt under their nails." He pointed at the sky, the bottle still clutched in his fist sloshing. "Do you realize it's dark?"

"Is it?" Kate looked up with mild interest. "Yes, I suppose so. Well, not quite dark," she qualified. "See, there's still light over there."

"That's west, darling." His patience was wearing thin. "We had better hope those blessed demons are forward thinkers, and keep their eyes on that horizon, eh?"

Kate lifted one eyebrow, as she continued to tie up stems. "You're being sarcastic."

"Forgive me." He sketched a bow, the torch in one hand, and the bottle in the other. "I do sometimes tend to forget me manners, when I've man-eating things flying about. It just puts me all off!"

His sarcasm hadn't been lost on her. A smile tucked one corner of her mouth as she bent back to her work. "I just need to finish up this last bit of sage..."

"For who?" he demanded, intercepting her path. She smelled of the grassy-fresh pungency of herbs and flowers, like some nymph of the woods, that made him want to throw her down and take her right there. _Bloody hell, not now!_ "The next tenants? Those poor wretches who are out there being eaten? I think not! C'mon, time to go!"

"Yes, yes." She flapped a hand, dismissing his concerns. "But I just..."

Stuffing the bottle under her arm, Jack grabbed her hand, and pulled her away, trampling through anything in his path.

"I wanted some of this for on board." Kate brandished a silvery-gray bundle of sage that was nearly as long as her forearm. "It's great for tonics and indigestion. When I was young, the Indians that lived nearby claimed it was good for evil spirits."

"Good as in making them go away, or good as in imparting a sense of euphoria to all?"

Her face darkened, her voice jarring with each step. "You're being sarcastic, again."

"Thank you, for noticing," he shot back over his shoulder.

*********************

**Kate** felt like a flag, flapping behind Jack, scrambling to keep up as he hurried out the garden gate, the bones of her hand being ground by his iron grip. The encampment was in clear view, but they were forced to steer around the kitchens, door gardens, and springhouse, following the circuitous maze of paths through the walls and hedges. She had to admit—but certainly not out loud—that it was darker than she had thought. The sun had ducked unexpectedly behind the piling clouds of a storm; like a wick on a lamp, dimmed by a simple turn of the thumb, darkness was closing in fast. The cool dampness was already drafting down out of the trees, the pools of their shadows merging.

They had cleared the buildings, and were on the last length of path when something whirred past her head, with a rush of chilling air. The flap of wings, coldly reminiscent of the night before, and a blur of slashing teeth suddenly appeared within inches of her face. Kate instinctively swung, screaming as she ducked. Jack bellowed and swung his torch as the demon bore down on them. She shrieked again as another dove at Jack's back, and he spun, blindly jabbing.

There was a feeling of bulk overhead, but they never saw enough to know what they faced. Kate groped for her sword, knowing at the same time blades were useless. Her hand was knocked away as Jack parried, first to one side, and then the other, fending off attacks. Desperate, Kate stabbed the head of the herb bundle into the flames of Jack's torch. The sage lit, but not with the effect she had hoped. Instead of a burst of flames, there was only a billowing curl of smoke.

"Look out! Jack!"

Fighting back to back, a snarling growl filled one ear; Kate pivoted and stabbed the air. She felt something at her elbow, and using the smoldering sage as if it were a sword, cut downward; she was rewarded with a demonic screech, the smoke swirling upward. The breeze caught the smoke, and lifting it over their heads, evoking another pain-ridden yowl that spiraled away.

Jack jerked the bottle's cork free with his teeth, upended it, and poured a circle at their feet, touching it with the torch at the same time. The liquor ignited in a searing whoosh as he grabbed Kate, burying her face into his chest, the curling flames leaping around them.

The fire and searing heat was only a temporary flash, but was almost immediately replaced by another blazing circle of men and torches, coming to help. The darting attacks resumed, Jack shielding Kate, while the bellowing men fought off the demons, not only for their captain, and Kate, but self-defense as well, inching slowly back to their bastion.

"Are you all right?" Jack's eyes were bright with near panic, in the firelight as he patted her over. Once satisfied that she was indeed intact, he clutched her tight enough to drove the wind from her. "Bloody dammit to hell!" His hand shook as he brushed the hair back, checking her face. "That was too close!"

"Well," she choked. "At least we know now that sage will fend them off."

Gasping, Jack shook his head, as Gibbs and the others were slapping them on the back, at their safe return. "It's not worth the trade."

Kate put on a brave front, graciously accepting the congratulations, and offered her gratitude to those who had saved them. At one point, Jack brushed against her, and gripped her by the shoulders.

"You're shaking."

And she was, one tremulous wave after another coursing through her. "I don't seem to be able to stop," she said apologetically, her voice not nearly as solid as she had hoped.

Jack looked back; the brandy bottle lay forgotten somewhere behind them, beyond the circle of fires. He snapped his fingers at the nearest person. "Get her something to drink, now! Gibbs! Flask!!"

Ducking a startled salute, the crewman scurried away. Jack steadied Kate as she walked unevenly, guiding her to a nearby stack of logs.

"Sit here," he murmured, and knelt, peering worriedly at her as he alternated between fanning her with his hat, and slapping her wrists. "You're white as a fish belly. Where's that ruddy drink?" he growled to anyone who might be listening.

"I'm not going to faint." Kate feebly attempted to wave him away.

She closed her eyes, in hopes of steadying herself, but the moment she did, the demonic faces darted at her again. She jerked, and snapped her eyes open again, to find Jack watching, brows knit with concern.

"No, that green look is just the flush of exuberance." He made a disgusted noise, his hair oddments clattering when he shook his head. "Bloody woman." His tension reared its head as he swore a little too colorfully, when he rose. "Guess I'll have to go get it meself. Don't move!"

Just as he rose from his knees, Gibbs appeared, triumphantly bearing his flask. "Needed fillin'," he explained, with an awkward shrug at Jack's glaring query. "Funny how them things seem to just go dry on their own."

Jack bit back several retorts as he snatched the flask away. Kate's knotted stomach gripped tighter at the prospect of rum, but a drilling look from Jack indicated that there would be no gain in attempting to refuse. Closing her eyes, he pressed it to her mouth; she braced a hand on his, hoping to control the dosage, in some manner. In the end, she lacked sufficient resistance, and had no choice but to swallow several large mouthfuls.

"Oh, that's awful!" The liquor roughened her voice. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she jerked her head away, when Jack raised the flask. "No! Please, I'm fine." Dabbing her lips, she saw her hand still shook. Jack saw as well, and she balled a fist. "I'll be fine," then qualified, "In a few minutes."

Jack sat back on his heels and dropped his head, his jaw muscles flexing. "You have to stop doing this," he said between his arms, his voice a thin rasp.

"Doing what?"

His throat moved as he swallowed, drawing a tired hand down his face. "I can't exist, day to day, watching you nearly be killed."

Kate lifted her head, incredulous. "You think it's any easier on me, watching you?"

He looked up, surprised by her severe scowl. "That's different." He waved a hand, dismissing the matter. She arched a severe brow and he stiffened, defensive. "Well, it is! That's me, and… and, this is you."

Kate settled back against the logs, musing at the one-sidedness of his logic. "I wasn't worried about being killed."

"Oh?" He peered skeptically down the long line of his nose. "And why not?"

"Because you were there," she said simply, crossing her arms.

"Then what's all the shaking about?"

"I was afraid for you."

"Me?" He was honestly surprised, almost to the point of speechlessness. "Me?" This time, it was uttered more with curiosity. His mouth pulled as he considered the concept, shaking his head in the end. "Never thought about it; I was too worried for you." A crooked smile grew. "Guess that's that all part of that 'together' thing, eh?"

In the tumult of their rescue, they had halted no more than a few paces inside the safety of the camp. As the men drifted away to return to their duties, Kate and Jack were left alone, semi-obscured in the shadows. Coming to an abrupt decision, Jack sat down next to her, planting Gibbs' flask firmly at his side, Jack slipped an arm around her, shaking he clutched her so tightly. His embrace did more than anything else in quelling her tremors. He continued to hold her, not so much for her comfort as for his own. "Aye, well," he sighed. "Some burdens we bear by choice, while others we have no choice at' all."

The men separated into their own clutches, the ones with whom they felt most comfortable, the ones they trusted to guard their backs. Conversation had fallen to a murmur, their voices and sporadic laughter softened by the cool damp of the night and crackling fires.

With quiet urging from Gibbs, mouth pipes still whistled mournfully from opposing directions, periodically colliding on the breeze. The whine of a lone fiddle drifted on the air, while someone idly plucked a guitar, neither one playing a particular tune, the players finding solace merely in the sound.

"Cap'n. Mr. Kate."

Jack looked up slowly at Gibbs' arrival. "Yes?"

Gibbs shifted on his feet, kicking at the dirt as he cleared his throat several times. "We—meanin' the men and me," he clarified quickly, with gesture toward the cluster of men gathered a short distance away, "wuz thinkin' the ground—bein' all damp and cold—might not be…"

"Is there a point on the horizon somewhere, that I can look forward to, Master Gibbs?"

"Aye, sir." Gibbs cleared his throat again, a sound like ripping canvas. "The men—meanin' me, as well—bein' concerned as to the comforts 'n all…"

Jack closed his eyes, touching his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure I have enough years left for you to get to the point."

"We brung a bed—a divan," Gibbs corrected, spurring on. "Out… here… over there," he clarified, waving a hand. "So's Mr. Kate might have something a bit warmer and drier—up away from the crawlies and all—to… sleep." He ended on a lame note, having run out of both words and breath.

"Ah! A point at last!" Jack sighed with good-humored relief. "Proof positive that there is, indeed, a higher being."

Kate was reluctant to abandon her comfortable spot. Still, the sentiment was touching, and even if her legs were broken, she wouldn't have been able to decline the offer. Stifling a groan, she sat up; Jack rose with his usual lithe grace, and bent to give her a hand up, the night air chilling her freshly exposed face and side. Seeing her shiver, he draped his coat over her shoulders, tucking it high around her neck as they struck off. Gibbs eagerly checked over his shoulder to see that she still followed, Jack and the cluster of men trailing closely. Ahead was an absurd sight: a dainty rose-colored silk damask settee, sitting on the lawn, in the midst of over a dozen grizzled and weather-beaten pirates, aglow with boyish pride.

Having been pre-occupied through the day, Kate hadn't noticed until then, the transformation the camp had taken.

Pirates were a rough and tumble lot, but they weren't above creature comforts; the compound had become a bizarre mixture of living rough, and luxurious elegance. It was a scene of velvet, leather, silk, brocade, embroidered, flowered, and patterned. Plush chairs sat with fragile-legged side tables, topped with a dried-gourd dish of burning tallow, the flames reflecting on the highly polished surface. Overstuffed velvet settees were partnered with crates or barrels supporting china lamps. Boots and grimed bare feet propped on brocade hassocks, or swinging idly over the arm of patterned silk. Some of the very pragmatic had brought beds, some ornate, their mattresses regurgitating their stuffing, while others, taken from the outbuildings, were more primitive.

Gibbs spread his arms in display, his eyes eager and bright. "Well, here 'tis, sir!"

Kate hid a smile at the mental images of pirates delicately lugging such a frivolous thing out of the house and across the grounds. As she circled, she observed that "delicate" probably wasn't the most accurate word to be used: at one end, the stuffing billowing through a slice in the upholstery.

Just as Kate turned to sit, Diogo dove behind her, to give the cushions a quick straightening and fluff. She was quite sure it wasn't her imagination that, as she lowered herself, there was a collective intake of air. She made a great show of wriggling her bottom into the down-filled cushions.

"It's wonderful!" That was no exaggeration; it was luxurious. "I don't think I've been on anything softer in years." It was only a small lie: there had been the bed, the night before, but she had no intention of spearing their enthusiasm.

Her audience hissed like a teapot boiling over, they gave a satisfied sigh of relief. Embarrassment instantly set in, and they hurriedly murmured expressions of gratitude at her thanks, and ducked away.

Thoughtfully arranged, like a settle, the couch scooped in the fire's heat, while at the same time, blocking its occupant from the wind. Jack's arms would have been her first choice for warmth and comfort, but the sofa ran a very close second.

"Cap'n!" Gibbs leaned over the back of the couch, pointing. "D'ye see that?"

Jack followed Gibbs' direction, to a glimmering glow on the hillside, overlooking the bay. "Yes, saw it last night, as well." He tipped his head, scratching his beard in thought. "Why would someone chose to go up there—alone—to crawl into a cave, spend the night keeping a fire, when he could be among the safety and security of many, down here?"

"Difficult to say what goes through a person's head. Old habits die hard?"

Jack absentmindedly nodded. "Or, there's something… up there, worth protecting, that can't be brought—or doesn't want brought—down here." He rolled his eyes at Gibbs, allowing the thought to settle. "As soon as they show themselves in the morning, I want a detail up there; it might be best to be doing the investigating without Master Rahal's supervision."

Jack patiently waited, until she had kicked off her shoes and curled up; more the size of a settee, it was too short for Kate to stretch her full length. He spread his coat over her, giving it an extra tuck at her back and legs, seeing her settled to his own satisfaction, then perched on the edge. For everything positive, there is a negative: the sofa had been placed with special care, in the heat and glow of the fire, and was now the center of attention. The thoughtful gesture had just cost them the convenience of invisiblility.

A corner of Jack's mouth pulled in a rueful grimace as they both realized the situation. "Comfy?"

The seat was deep enough that it offered nearly as much space as their bunk on the _Pearl,_ the feather stuffing considerably less lumpy than the wads of discarded canvas.

"I wish you could join me," she murmured, nestling deeper.

It was obvious that he shared the same thoughts. "Aye, well, I gave up feather beds and silks, a long time ago," he sighed grimly. "Doesn't lend well to boots and swords a'tall," he ended, wrinkling his nose.

He held her eyes with a coffee-eyed look, and for an all too brief moment, allowed her a glimpse of what burned within, a need that found an echo in her bones. Then he blinked, and it was gone, but not forgotten. Nudging him with her knee, she winked. His hand lingered as he brushed back her hair, his finger tentatively venturing to trace the curve of her neck. Groaning, he cleared his throat—a way of vocalizing just how much discomfort he was enduring—as he withdrew his hand and slid to the ground. Hooking his hat on the armrest, he situated himself against the divan.

His hair fell in a corded fan on the patterned damask. Longing to touch him somehow, Kate inched a finger from under the coarse weave of Jack's coat and toyed with them. The cords were coarse and springy, but the hair in between was almost as silken as the fabric she reposed upon. The other musicians had retired, either to sleep or their duties, but a hornpipe still played a mournful solo from somewhere on the far side of the camp.

The night was a weight, bearing down on them from all sides, and above, threatening to overtake and crush them at the first sign of faltering.

A competition of sorts, broke out, of who could tell the most bizarre and gore-ridden tale. Dueling tales, it was, back and forth across the fires, a friendly competition. The winner, however, was a foregone conclusion, but there was always that unspoken anticipation and hope that someday, someone, in a moment of divine intervention and inspiration, might actually be able to best Gibbs or Asaid.

Listening to one, Kate closed her eyes, quietly laughing and shivering at the same time. "How can they sit there and listen to those stories?"

"Takes their mind off things," answered Jack simply. Kate gave him a skeptical look, but only received a blank one in return. "Look, haven't you ever noticed, the more you talk about something, the less worrisome it becomes?"

"This, from an expert at keeping everything from everyone."

"Darling, I tell you everything. Well," he quickly qualified at her sharp look, "I tell you more than I've ever told anyone before, I can grant you that."

A scream echoed from the night. Human, and terror-ridden, it ended nearly as quickly as it began, the sound so deflected by hills, water and trees, it was impossible to know exactly from which direction it had come. An uncomfortable hush fell over the camp, the men reaching for their weapons as all ears strained for anything further; while others bent to feverishly stoke the fires. Kate instinctively slid her arm around Jack's shoulders.

"May God have mercy on their souls," Gibbs murmured, materializing from the dark, behind the settee. His beetling brows glinting in the firelight as he cocked his head, listening.

"A bit of said mercy might have been a little more useful, if it had come sooner, Mr. Gibbs."

Suddenly, no coat, nor fire, could offer enough warmth. Kate inched closer, until her head rested on Jack's shoulder, her arm curling around his chest.

"S'alright, darling," he murmured, covering her hand with his. Contrary to his calm outward appearance, his eyes still darted warily. "Sleep now. I'm here."

It was a thoughtful suggestion, but neither one slept. No one slept; it wasn't a night conducive to that.


	18. Chapter 18: Seeking a Higher Authority

**Chapter Eighteen: Seeking Higher Authorities**

**Kate** was sent the next morning, to direct a detail, in the finer aspects of the gathering and preserving of sage. Given its well-attested, deterrent properties in the face of the demons, as exhibited the night before, the men followed her orders with a brighter, more intense spirit, and applied themselves with the vigor of ants on a hill. Once they were well drilled on cutting and bundling, she moved to fashioning drying racks over beds of warm coals, and then hanging the bundles most advantageously.

It was after the mid-meal before they finished. Sore-fingered, Kate stretched her back, and sank gratefully onto a bench. A bowl of stew miraculously appeared on the table before her, a cup of what was presented to be coffee on the side; after one sip, she had her doubts. The morning's brew had been insidious enough, but now, after cooking on the coals through the day, it had been reduced to something that would probably have stained leather quite nicely. As her spoon clinked on the bowl, she was well aware of the efforts that had been made to see that she was always served on the china and silverware taken from the house; she was touched by the thought, but questioned whom the responsible party might have been.

While Kate ate, she resumed looking through the _Hersilia_ journal. The key to everything had to be somewhere, amid the pages of drawings, maps, illustrations and symbols. The language barrier was frustrating, to know that what they needed to survive might be right in front of her, and yet had no way of breaking through. Some of the illustrations appeared to be gods, while others were of battles, possibly sacrifices, with dots and dashes drawn to portray blood spurting from severed heads and limbs.

Enthralled, Kate was sipping the cold coffee—temperature not having any bearing on its palatability—when she was abruptly interrupted by Jack plunking down on the bench beside her. He tipped her bowl, inspecting its contents and frowned.

"You didn't eat much."

"Thank you, but I don't need another mother; I already have one." She looked up, returning the same concerned frown. "And how much did you eat?"

Pushing the bowl away, he wrinkled his nose. "Enough."

"Which means you ate less than I did."

"Can't help it." He waved her off with a casual hand. "Sometimes me stomach goes all wimbly." He looked over her arm at the book and recoiled. "Do you have to keep looking at that thing?"

"It's rather fascinating, in a gruesome sort of way; every time I open it, I find something new."

He regarded her through one eye. "I'm beginning to see a side of you I've never known. Are you feeling a sudden desire for disemboweled and dismembered bodies?"

Kate scoffed, rolling her eyes. "It's not as if anything is going to jump up off the page after you."

"You never know," he said, inching away.

"Look at this." Kate pushed the book toward him.

"Do I have to?" He craned his neck, cautiously peering over her arm.

Kate gave him a warning look that was far too reminiscent of one her mother used, and then took him by the arm, urging him closer. "Look at this." She pointed to an elaborate illustration of the bare-breasted Ishtar, surrounded by symbols. "Isn't there something familiar about these?"

"Ah, this is a trick question: you ask me, if I've seen a woman's lovelies before, and when I say, Yes, you give me a trouncing. No, no, no," he said, emphatically wagging a finger. "I'll not be drug into that morass."

"Will you stop! Can't you overlook that long enough…?"

He snorted, shaking his head. "You don't know men very well, do you?"

"I know plenty about men, more than I care to think. Just look closer, at these symbols. I'm sure the key to everything is here," she said, rifling through the pages. "It's just a matter of trying to break through this language thing."

He sighed, shaking his head as if she were a small child, failing understand. "It's an ancient, forgotten language, according to Asaid and Hassim, at any rate." Jack wasn't being critical—actually, quite the contrary—but he was being blunt. "Not as if you're going to find someone standing about that reads it, or that you're going to learn it, whilst around the fires at night."

"I just need to understand why they would be all over the walls of the ship, and then the walls in the cellar." Kate thoughtfully chewed the inside of her mouth as she flipped through the ragged pages. "Didn't the captain say something about 'a Keeper'?"

Having been distracted by something across the camp, Jack jerked, his attention snapping back. "Captain? Who? Me?" Preoccupied, Kate left him to his own conclusions, his face screwing with confusion. "You mean Barker?"

Seeking patience Kate pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "No, the captain of the _Hersilia_, remember? In one of his last passages, he mentioned something about 'the Keeper said', or something to that effect." She closed her eyes as she tried to conjure the wrecked ship's cabin. Heavens, was that only the day before yesterday? This really was beginning to become disorienting.

"How am I supposed to …" The words trailed off; Jack angled his jaw, squinting as he strained to think, finally brightening. "Yes! I recall now; it was the very last entry… rather foreboding bit. Good call, luv."

Focused, Kate shrugged off the compliment. "Asaid mentioned a Keeper, assigned by the King, to keep the djinn on task; apparently they're inclined toward forgetting their duties," she ended wryly.

"Not unlike some of me crew," he grumbled, casting an accusing eye over his shoulder toward the I_Pearl_./I

"So," Kate pressed on, undaunted. "That has to mean the Keeper was on board."

"You mean the one the King Whatever-His-Name-Was charged with taking care of those… things? That was a bloody long time ago—centuries, I gather," he said skeptically.

Kate slid him a barely tolerant look. "Obviously, it's not the same person—or at least I don't think," she added as a side thought. "But, maybe it was someone portraying himself as one, in charge of that… whatever it is."

Jack propped his chin in his hand, tapping his fingers idly on the table. "Whoever he was, had told the captain as much, because that's what the captain called him."

"But, Asaid and Hassim said there would only be trouble, if the box was disturbed."

For whatever reasons, by whatever means, the Keeper had certainly failed in the category of keeping the crate safe. It had been most viciously opened, the side torn off and the packing strewn all over the hold.

"And, according to the log," Kate went on, "they were looking to the Keeper for help. But, why…. who would open it?"

"Ships are a curious lot." He reached for Kate's cup and took a sip, curling his lip in disgust. He propped his head in his hand again, and heaved a dramatic sigh, perhaps just a bit dismayed at Kate's failure to fully understand the dynamics of a crew. "Have one man break an arm, and another choke on a bit of hardtack, and suddenly they are convinced they've been besieged by evil spirits," he explained, absent-mindedly examining the cup's contents.

"And so they blamed the box." It wasn't the most rational line of reasoning, but not the most unlikely either. She had seen the effects of unfettered folklore and superstitions in the Highlands, dominating everyone's life. It was easy enough to understand the impact it could have on a ship. For some reason, the more isolated a group of people, the more suspicious and irrational they got. "So, the crew opened the box…"

"And all hell broke loose." Jack shoved the cup away with one finger, the sound of the china scraping wood a harsh punctuation to his statement.

Between the chilling desolation of the ship, and the attacks of the last two nights, the combination offered a horrifying glimpse what must have transpired on the _Hersilia_. Jack fell quiet, as they both contemplated, at the same time jerking free of the nightmarish daydream, and shaking it away.

"Rahal had said there were no survivors." Kate braced her forehead in her hand, combing her fingers through her hair. "But then, why are the symbols in the cellar, where Perrineau was killed? Rahal said there were no survivors, which would mean they had all been killed—or eaten, or whatever—by time the ship ran aground."

As the crew was lost, one-by-one, she would have become short-handed, struggling to manage at sea. Eventually, there wouldn't have been crew left, and she would have been at the mercy of the storm, which deposited her on the point. If everyone were dead, that would mean that the Keeper was dead as well, which led to the conclusion…

Slowly, their heads came up together, convening at the same conclusion, at the same time.

"Why would the djinn attack their master?"

Kate's cup rattled in the saucer when Jack planted his hands on the table, and abruptly rose. "A talk with Asaid and Hassim is in order."

As it was, Asaid was afield, cutting wood, but Hassim was readily available.

"Mr. Hassim, a word, sir," Jack called. Stopping in mid-motion, Hassim straightened from his task, and came to attention. "You told us of the King putting someone in charge of the djinn," Jack asked without preamble, "in order to control them, keep them on the job, as it were."

Jack's train of thought momentarily baffled Hassim. "Aye, sir," he said cautiously still uncertain.

"And how would these… things, be feeling toward said supervision?"

Hassim looked puzzled.

"Do…did…they object?"

"Hardly, sir." Relief washed Hassim's face, at finally grasping his captain's point. "If the djinn were to defy the Keeper, they would have to face the wrath of the Queen of the Underworld, and be banished to the lowest level of Hell." He shuddered at his own image.

Common logic would dictate that it would be highly unlikely that the mastered would attack the master, unless driven by self-destructive forces.

"Then, what happened to the Keeper?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"We have every reason to believe the Keeper was on that ship." Jack waved in the general direction of the _Hersilia_. "And yet, we have been led to believe, that he never lived to get off. Someone… or some _thing_ killed him."

Hassim's expression clouded. "Seems unlikely, sir, that the djinn would do that." His conviction left it that there was no room for doubt.

"There were markings near the cabin, where we found this book." Kate rifled through the pages with a new enthusiasm, muttering in frustration, until she found what she sought. "Here, these."

Kate tapped a finger at the page, and then passed the book to Hassim, who only took the briefest of looks.

"These are the symbols of Ishtar."

"So now, we're back to the Queen of the Whores," Jack sighed, throwing his hands up.

Kate threw him a sharp look. "Since when are you so judgmental of whores?"

"To invoke her symbols, would be to invoke her protection," Hassim went on to explain. He fumbled through the pages, until he found what he was looking for. "This would provide the greatest protection of all; it's the Medallion of Asushu-Namir."

He held out the book, pointing at an elaborate drawing of a circle, with a dove imposed on a shield, an eight-pointed star, and a series of numbers running around the edge.

"I remember that." Kate smiled, recalling the discussion in the boat, on their way back from the _Hersilia._

"I've had me experiences with medallions before." Jack sidled away, leery. "What's so bloody special about this one?"

"It was given by Ea, the most powerful of all gods, to protect his emissary, when he was sent to the Underworld. It would protect anyone, from anything."

"Not an all bad trinket," Jack muttered interestedly, craning his neck.

"But, why would the Keeper need protecting?" Kate asked, her head beginning to spin.

"Because he wasn't the Keeper."

Jack's conclusions brought an ominous silence, the three exchanging stunned looks. It didn't make total sense, but it certainly helped several pieces of the puzzle fall into place. The symbols on the bulkheads of the _Hersilia,_ and those in the Perrineau cellar, had been executed by the same person, one who had presented himself as the Keeper—probably in order to preserve his own safety, or status, on the ship—to the captain and crew, but in fact wasn't, by virtue of the fact that he was seeking protection from them. All together, it meant…

"Someone did survive," Jack said, finishing Kate's thought for her. "And lived to enjoy the Perrineau hospitality."

Kate had been nodding, agreeing with everything Jack said, until the last. "How can you be sure of that?"

Jack gave her that same tolerant look a parent would give a child. "That cellar was dug, with great pains and effort, as a final refuge; only an honored guest would be shown the way, or invited in." Jack squared his shoulders, and adjusted his belts. "I'd say, it's time for another discussion with Master Rahal; it would seem he knows a bit more than what he is letting on. Has anyone seen him?"

A quick check around verified that no one had seen either Rahal or his daughter all day.

"Oddly odd," Jack muttered, tapping a finger on his belts. "Foraging the wilderness is more appealing than eating ready food."

Initially, the excuse made for Rahal and his daughter had been that they were afraid of pirates, preferring to keep to themselves. But that thinking was wearing thin, declining food, the fellowship of others, and the collective protection of the fires pointed to something much deeper.

Jack looked up the hill, where a fire's glow had been previously seen.

"Reasonable to believe he is up there, then. Must be something fair valuable up there, eh? Mr. Gibbs!" His startling bellow echoed across the grounds.

Gibbs cast a worried eye skyward, when Jack informed him of his intentions. "It's getting' late, Cap'n."

"In more ways than one, Gibbs," said Jack cryptically. "Can't afford not to go up there and have a looksee."

With an admonitory eye, and a grim set to his mouth, Gibbs registered his protests, but dutifully gathered a well-armed detail, making a special point of including Asaid and Hassim, for obvious reasons. Turning to leave, Jack paused in mid-step at seeing Kate fall in behind, giving her a warning look, and a hopeful eye. She returned his stare with one of her own, steady with determination. Grumbling under his breath, he surrendered and led the way.

Several had seen Rahal and his daughter traveling a consistent path. Around the paddocks, skirting the overgrown fields, and then ducking into the forest, the party struck a trail that was not much more than a glorified rabbit path. The bent and broken leaves, and twigs along the way, indicated that something much larger had passed, frequently.

**At** times, the climb was a steep grade, a latticing canopy of limbs overhead, the light lacing the ground, leaves, and heads and shoulders, of the men, undulating with their movements. The narrow path was snaking, calling to question if it was so, in the spirit of being evasive, or seeking the path of least resistance through the rugged terrain.

So vividly green and lush, the forest could have been seen as an Eden, if it weren't for the lack of life, no birds or animals, only the buzz of insects to break the abbey-like hush. There was an occasional rustle of leaves, and the telltale sounds of a snake or lizard slithering past. All things considered, Kate would have preferred a bird's chortle, or the scolding chatter of a squirrel; insects and reptiles weren't much of a comfort.

Kate didn't realize she was still clutching the manuscript, until there were well away. Tucked in the waistband of her skirt, it was another hot weight, in addition to the heavy swing of the sword at her side, the smell of the leather sharpening as she began to perspire. Hitching her skirts with one hand, she used the other to scrabble up the steep stretches. Jack frequently lagged to offer a hand, physically carrying her over one stream that was too wide to be leapt over.

Jack had shed his coat before they left, and wisely so. Against the hillside, the wind was blocked, the moisture-laden air heavy and still. When the trail wound around, and came out to the windward side, and Kate paused to lift her hair from her neck, drinking in the fresh air in great gulps. The reprieve would be temporary, the trail curving around, back into the stifling closeness.

At last, the trail leveled. Between the branches was a panoramic view of the bay below, a mosaic of blues, the three ships dotting the azure brilliance. In the brief clearing, Jack cast an eye skyward, looking back at Kate with concern. The sun was slipping lower, hanging in a sultry orb, resting on a dark cushion of storm clouds. A couple of hours, that was all; the journey was taking longer than anyone had anticipated. Jack had been pushing, allowing no rest stops, but most of their time had been consumed, and they hadn't even found the cave yet.

By his expression, it was clear that Jack was thinking that, after all this effort, there had to be something valuable, wherever this elusive cave was. True, it could have been the only cave on the island, the only place that Rahal and his daughter could find refuge. But, if survival were the only motivation, then why hadn't they taken advantage of the fires and the shelter of the men of the _Black Pearl_? No, all indicators pointed to that something more than a safe haven was up there.

Even if there were nothing of importance, just the simple act of finding Rahal would make the trip worthwhile. A niggling thought had been nagging at Kate—and Jack, for that matter—that there was something glaringly wrong, and yet they were missing it. Narrowing it down, the discrepancies radiated from a single point: Rahal had lied about survivors from the _Hersilia._ Learning his motivations for that could provide the answers to several things.

Finally, they came upon a clearing, small, perched on the high shoulder of the hill. To one side was a vista of the bay and the ships. The _Hersilia _sat almost directly below, her masts pointing up the hillside like accusing fingers. The grounds and house were visible too, the chimneys and peaks peeking shyly from amid the treetops, the fires already sparking to life. If the trampled dirt and cold fire ring weren't sufficient evidence that it was the right place, the mouth of the cave was a final declaration.

Jack grabbed Kate by the arm, stopping her. "Not thinking that's wise."

She looked down to see that the bare earth wasn't just trampled, it was a myriad of symbols—Isthar's symbols—drawn in arcs, one inside the other, starting at the fire ring at the very mouth of the cave, and then outward, one phalanx after another. The rock outcropping around the cave bore a repetition of the same symbols, crudely drawn in black. Curious, Kate reached to touch one, but Jack intercepted her hand in mid-air.

"Best be knowing what fire we're playing with first."

Men sidled around the drawings in the dirt, not so much out of respect as from fear, making horned signs behind their backs and spitting in sequences, to ward off whatever spirits they imagined to be lurking.

"Gotta be something here," Jack called, scanning the site. "Spread out, and start looking." He glanced upward at the waning light. The shadows were growing longer, merging on the scripted ground, and he shook his head. "We'll be bloody lucky to get back in time, as it 'tis."

Kate shuddered at the thought of trying to make it back to camp, and safety, through the forest. They had brought torches, but not enough for such a long trip back. They hadn't planned on spending the night on the hillside, and so didn't have enough for that, either. The inner fire ring had barely space enough for all of them, and from all appearances, there certainly wasn't enough room for everyone inside the cave.

The cave was not much more than a bolt hole, barely wider than a man's shoulders, and no more than knee high. As Kate bent to inspect it, the wind whistled through the cracks of the rocks, as if the cave were breathing, and shuddered to think of the nights Rahal and his daughter had spent crammed into that tomb-like hole. She closed her eyes; she had a horror of confined spaces, and struggled to quell the nauseating fear that rose at the thought of crawling in there. A small stack of firewood sat at the opening, but certainly not enough to make it through an entire night.

A pistol's flint was struck, a branch lit, and Stevens, being the most diminutive, was elected to explore the cave. Dropping on all fours, he went in, up to his waist first, then only his feet showed, and then he disappeared all together, the faint flicker of his light the only remaining evidence. They all lined up around the cave's mouth, as best as could be managed among the etchings on the ground. It seemed like an eternity, before Stevens reappeared, like a hound backing out of a badger hole.

"It opens up a little in there, sir," reported Stevens, his face streaked with dirt and soot. "Couldn't be sure, but 'peared to be something in there, way in the back."

"Get it," was Jack's only response.

Given the small space, it took the teamwork of three of men, wriggling on their stomachs, with a modicum of cursing and swearing, before they emerged victorious. There was the muffled intake of air, as everyone drew a breath and held it.

From out of the dark of the cave, they drug a small chest, roughly the size of a deed box, reminiscent of the crate they had found in the _Hersilia's_ hold, heavily carved and inscribed with many of the same symbols, and the swirling cursive of Arabic.

"These are warnings." Asaid pointed to the lettering, the tightness of his voice rendering it nearly unrecognizable.

Something drove Kate to touch the box, if for no other reason than to discern what it was made of, it's surface so tarnished and stained. Jack blocked her with an arm, sliding another cautioning look.

Jack knelt in the dirt before the chest, his hands hovering at the buckles of the leather straps that secured the lid. For as aged as the box appeared, the leather was remarkably supple and moved readily as he undid the buckles. He paused to swipe his hands on his breeches, then, with everyone huddled closely, he flipped it open.

Kate reflexively cringed, more in fear for Jack than herself. Craning her neck, she could see a considerably smaller box, nested in surprisingly fresh-looking straw, its corners rounded, almost to the point of being oval. Where the first box had been beaten by time, this one was pristine, its surface so highly polished it was nearly opalescence. It bore a golden latch, which swung freely as Jack held it up.

"It's the seal," breathed Hassim and Asaid in unison. They both gulped, breaking into a sweat. "It's been broken."

Jack glanced hesitantly from them, to the box and back, and then up at Kate, perhaps to seek encouragement, or to take one last look. She bit her lower lip, and gave a bare nod, closing her eyes to etch the image of his face in her own memories… just in case.

"Well…" Jack momentarily stalled, his fingers brushing the useless mechanism dangling. "Since the damage has been done…" He attempted a shrug, but the tension in his shoulders wouldn't allow it. "At least, we didn't come all this way for naught."

The wind stiffened, a gust bending the trees, rushing through the leaves. The dirt blew, swirling at their feet, yet the symbols there remained undisturbed. Jack took a breath, his fingers dancing an air ballet over the latch, and then lifted the lid.

Inside was an oval object, more rounded than the box containing it, but asymmetrical, one end broader than the other. Larger than a man's two fists together, it was a lustrous, deep blue, a solid color, and yet with a multi-layered depth that made one think they were seeing through to the veins of gold, the movement of the light giving the impression they pulsed. It was cradled in a nest of gossamer-like, ivory satin, shimmering to amber in the waning light.

"The Body of Da'ud," Hassim and Asaid murmured together.

Some men leaned closer, drawn by their fascination, while others fell back, quailing. Kate couldn't help but sense an undeniable presence.

Myths were always fascinating, but there is no greater fascination than to see those tales come alive, to touch and hold, the very stuffs of those legends. What Jack held was ancient beyond anyone else's experiences; a single survivor, while everything else of its time had been reduced to dust.

"Looks like a bloody egg—or is it stone?" Jack asked, angling his head. He ventured a finger forward to touch it, but jerked it away at the warning hisses from Hassim and Asaid.

"'The one who disturbs', remember, Captain?"

"It's already been disturbed, several times over," Jack observed, but withdrew further in spite of it.

Gibbs vibrated with curiosity, his great faith in superstition constraining him from drawing too close. "What is it?"

Hassim searched for his voice. "The egg of a sacred ostrich."

"That color?"

"Lapis, the sacred stone of Ishtar, to provide further protection in its journey. Only the gods at the Western Gate may break it, without injuring the contents. And, if you injure the contents…"

"A thousand torments," Jack finished, recalling further from Asaid's tale. "Something of a continuing theme, is it not?" he murmured dryly.

Gibbs' eyes darted between Jack and the two Arabs, caught on the horns of indecision as to which authority he wished to instill his faith. "What's to be done with it?"

"It was to be delivered to the Western Gates," Hassim reminded.

Jack snorted, his gaze still fixed on the egg. "Wherever in the bloody hell that might be. We couldn't get to the blessed thing, anyway, even if we did know where it was." He threw a look over his shoulder toward the bay, and the wrecked _Hersilia_. "We've already seen what happens at sea."

"We could put it back," Gibbs suggested eagerly, gaining the endorsement of several others around him.

Asaid and Hassim exchanged dubious looks. "The seal's broken; the damage has been done." Asaid's voice rang ominously in the small clearing.

"Then we're trapped, just like Rahal." Her own words put an icy knot at the base of Kate's spine. This was becoming intractable, like a dog chasing a wagon: once he's caught it, what was he going to do with it?

Jack looked down at the egg with something between loathing and awe. "There's got to be a way to call these things off."

"Only the Keeper can do that," Hassim said.

"Then summon whoever else is in charge of these things." Jack's frustration was growing; helpless wasn't his best condition.

Asaid and Hassim goggled. "Ishtar?"

"Isn't she the one, that caused all the men to castrate themselves?" Gibbs murmured, hunching his shoulders, and shifting uncomfortably. He and several others reflexively put a hand to their britches, either to assure themselves that they were still intact, or to take an inventory, in case of future confrontations.

"And stopped all the bedding on Earth, a fate worse than death." Jack winced, tentatively glancing Kate's direction. "It is my considered opinion—and not at all limited experience—that dealing with goddesses can be dicey business; never can trust a word they say."

Kate slowly turned toward Jack, curious to see if she might find some hint of what on earth Jack was talking about. She knew his life had been worldly, but he had failed to mention goddesses, and from the sound of it, he was definitely speaking with the voice of experience.

There was a general consensus among those present: for any number of reasons, it would seem invoking a goddess didn't appeal to anyone present.

Frowning, Jack sat back on his heels, drumming his fingers on his legs as he strained to think, but was jerked to another series of problems when his eye caught the impending dark. For the short term, there was more pressing matters coming to bear: they had to survive the night. Failing that would render anything else superfluous. He rose, dusting his hands as if he might be able to rid himself of having touched the box. "Gentlemen…"

Kate cut him off with a startled yelp, jumping when she turned to find Samira standing amid the greenery, at the edge of the clearing, her arms loaded with firewood. She seemed equally taken back to see them there. Her eyes widened in shock at seeing the opened boxes, but Kate thought she also saw a faint flicker of relief.

"Come here, lass. That's it. C'mon. C'mon," Jack coaxed, gently. "We mean you no harm. Truth be told, it's your father we seek; is he about?"

Gulping, Samira crept forward, skillfully avoiding the drawings on the ground, casting worried looked over her shoulder. She looked warily from one man to another as they closed in around her, finally finding the safety in Kate's face. She bent to drop her load of firewood, and then straightened, wiping her hands on her dress.

"My father lies."


	19. Chapter 19: From Hell's Seventh Level

**Chapter Nineteen: Fires of the Seventh Level of Hell**

**Samira's** appearance was a mild surprise, compared to another greater shock.

Jack found his voice first. "You speak?"

She nodded solemnly, her face darkening as she blushed. "I always have. But he threatened me, told me not to... when your ship arrived."

"Threatened you?" Kate echoed, moving closer. "Who?"

Samira's eyes darted away, unwilling to answer an obvious question; only one other person was on the island at the time of the _Black Pearl's_ arrival. Kate was sympathetic; the poor child was only trying to please her father, but there was every possibility that such loyalty was misguided.

"Very well, then." Jack drew up alongside Kate. "Answer me this: what, the bloody hell, is this all about?"

Jack's impatience was thinly veiled; Kate couldn't blame him. Tensions had been running high since their arrival, with far too many questions, and blessed few answers; there were no signs of it getting any better. Gibbs looked on interestedly, as was everyone else, and justifiably so; their fates hanging by the same thin thread.

Samira bit her lower lip, coyly evasive. "My father said I shouldn't say."

Jack bit back several unkind remarks. "_'My father said I shouldn't say,_'" he shot back, in a mocking feminine voice. He leaned closer, imposing himself over her. "Your father's threats could prove to be the least of your worries, savvy?"

With his hand coming to rest on the pommel of his sword, Jack punctuated his threat with a meaningful waggle of his brows, and a menacing glare, the Kohl liner enhancing the image of the pirate that Samira seemed to fear.

Not surprisingly, his methods worked.

"Monsieur was _not_ Father's master." Samira fell back a step, not so much toward Kate as away from Jack. Once the dam of silence had been broken, the words tumbled in a torrent. "We are not _servants_." She spit the final word. "The Parrineau's were kind to us; Monsieur Parrineau protected us, until…"

Jack's eyes sharpened. "We were told he was killed in the cellar."

Samira choked a sob, her thin shoulders quivering. "Father locked him out."

"What?" Jack and Kate said in unison. Jack grabbed Samira by the arms, and brought her around to face him. She gave a startled squeak, and ducked her head. He took her by the chin, and forced her head around. "What did you say?"

"There was no one left, but Father, Monsieur Parrineau and me." Her tears flowed freely now, her face screwed with anguish, her eyebrows nearly touching. "If the djinn were fed, they would leave us be."

Kate swallowed down a sickening lump; Jack's hand fell away in disgust, leaving Samira between them. None of the horrors were her fault, and yet, with no one else available, it was too easy to blame her.

"He beat at the door, and screamed; it was horrible to hear him." She clapped her hands over her ears, as if to block out the memory. "I played with Alice, his youngest daughter; she gave me a doll, to replace the one I lost."

A vision of an abandoned doll, lying tattered and torn, flashed through Kate's mind. "The ship! You were on that ship, weren't you?"

Samira's face grew haunted, and she dropped her head. "It was an accident."

"Accident?" Jack coughed skeptically. "Most wrecks are."

"No, the ship wrecked after everyone was gone." Her voice fell to a bare whisper. "Gone, just like everyone... just… gone."

"You mean, eaten." Samira flinched at Jack's blunt observation, slipping further sideways at his advance.

"Father didn't mean it." She balled her fist at her side, with the conviction of a child frantically striving to overlook a parent's shortcomings. "I'm sure he didn't." Balking at Jack's thunderous glare, she pled her case to Kate. "The men of the ship were angry about Da'ud, and wanted to open the box... maybe, to take him away. He had to do something. He thought we were near enough to the Western Gate by then, that Da'ud would be liberated, and he would be saved."

Jack shook his head. "Aye, well forgive me, if I don't see the nobility in feeding an entire crew to a bunch of man-eaters, as an option."

"Jack!" Kate hissed. "She's just a child."

"Who has stood by and watched all this transpire, with naught a word," he added, firmly, his dark look never leaving Samira. "How did you—you and you're precious father—manage not to be eaten?"

Samira frowned at Jack's failure to comprehend. "He's the Keeper." Clearly, she expected that simple statement to be a comprehensive explanation.

"The Keeper," Jack repeated, flatly. Subterranean rumblings were straining to surface.

He was a master at inscrutability, but was quickly nearing the boiling point, and lack of experience of dealing with very young girls not helping matters. The crew sensed it, inching away. "With all due respect to your father and his noble intentions, if he _is_ the Keeper, then why is he having to defend himself from them? Tell me that one, eh?"

"My father is a good man!" Samara shrieked, bouncing in frustration. Fuming, she turned and stalked away.

Growling, Jack angrily swiped the air. "Shall we contemplate the damages wrought by the acts of a good man?" he called after her then threw up his hands.

Samira's attempts to distance herself from them, was halted by the wall of greenery that defined the clearing. Catching up with her, Kate took her by the hand, and ushered her a few steps further, away from the bustle of the men making preparations for the night, thinking perhaps a bit of privacy might help. She rubbed the Samira's back, smoothed her sleek, blue-black hair from her face, and waited for her to regain her composure.

Jack hung back; far enough to be discrete, out of Samira's sight, but near enough to both hear and see them. He pretended to occupy himself with conferring with his crew, but kept one eye on them.

"Now," Kate began softly, assuming a motherly tone. She vibrated with Jack's same frustration, but suspected a velvet hammer would be more effective than a fist. "Samira, listen to me. All of these men—including Jack and me—all of their lives depend on you and what you can tell us. Do you understand?"

Tribulation and trauma had a way of maturing children, regrettably rendering them old beyond their years; Kate was banking on that fact. Hopefully, through the horrors that she had witnessed, she had gained enough responsibility to understand the value of another's life. To her relief, Samira solemnly nodded.

Careful steps and a faint metallic clatter marked Jack came up behind Samira, but Kate kept a steady focus on the girl. "Now, if as you say, your Father is the Keeper, and controls the djinn, then why is he so afraid?"

"He's not." Samira's voice quavered, still resolute in her devotion.

Kate lifted Samira's chin, and looked her directly in the eye. "Yes, he is," she said evenly. "Look at all this." She waved vaguely at the drawings on the ground and face of the cave. "He's afraid, Samira… for his life, and yours. Why?"

Samira's eyes sought to dodge away, but Kate moved with her, maintaining a silent pressure. Finally, Samira gave in, her voice thickened with crying. "He killed him."

"What?"

Samira jerked away. "He killed him!" Her pained cry brought everyone to an abrupt stop, Asaid and Hassim most particularly startled. "He wanted Da'ud; he _had_ to have him. The Keeper was stopping him, so he killed him."

Samira fell against Kate, and sobbed, the girl's almost frail body wrung with hiccuping tremors. It was gut wrenching to see someone so small, so racked with anguish. A myriad of questions bobbed to the surface, like apples in a barrel, but there was little time, yet one did dominate: was there no end to this man's treachery? When the lives lost were added up, the treachery took on a staggering proportion, all in the name of one man's personal quest. Whatever his initial intentions had been, they had gone drastically awry.

_Desperate people do desperate things._

Jack crept nearer, exchanging strained looks with Kate, while she attempted to console Samira. He was trying to be patient, but the battle was quickly being lost, and for good reason: time was running out. It was dark; the fire had been lit, including only a couple of torches, the remainder in reserve in case of attack.

"So, how do we kill these things?" Jack spoke quietly, but with enough firmness to demand an answer, gentle, but blunt. The lives of his crew overrode any concerns for the delicate feelings of a young girl.

Roughly brushing her face dry, Samira straightened, sighing in frustration of being asked to explain what was eloquently clear to her. "You don't."

"Oh, come now!" Jack scoffed, pacing. "I've seen enough of this sort of thing, to know that every curse, demon, evil spirit, fairy tale, and monster come with some kind of a curse, spell, antidote or incantation that stops them. It's what makes the world go round, luv," he ended with a narrow look.

"Nothing kills them," she repeated firmly, sniffing, "except the Gods of the Western Gate; only they can release the djinn from their duty, so they may return to the Underworld."

"Well, we know fire works," Jack said with a satisfied nod, perhaps trying to prove to Samira that she wasn't being completely honest. "And we've discovered, quite by accident, that smoke from sage seems to give them a good clout."

"True," she equivocated. "But only as a temporary protection."

"Those markings," Kate said, pointing to the drawings around the mouth of the cave. "We've seen those on the ship, and in the cellar..."

"Those are only effective, if they are made with the charred remains of a gaokerena tree." Samira gave them the barely tolerant look of a child forced to explain things to an adult.

"Figures," Jack grumbled. "It's always some bizarre, remote, intangible, unattainable something or other!" he finished with another irritated swipe.

"That explains the ashes in the cellar floor," Kate interjected. And the strange smell of the drawings on the _Hersilia_.

"The Medallion of Asushu-Namir is said to be the best protection." Samira gained confidence in her authority.

"The Medallion? Your father wears that around his neck, doesn't he?" Kate remembered seeing that Rahal wore something at his neck, but since living in a world where everyone wore some variety of adornment, she hadn't thought it remarkable.

Samira's reluctant nod brought a derisive snort from Jack. "Protecting his own wretched neck, _again_."

Shooting Jack a defiant look, Samira tugged at the neck of her dress, to reveal the image of the medallion burned into the tender skin above her breast. Kate's own brand burned anew, with a surge of repulsion at anyone who would do such a thing to a child, to his own daughter, regardless of the spirit of his intention. Asaid and Hassim craned their necks to see more clearly, and fell back, stunned, murmuring what sounded like prayers.

Jack was equally appalled, his lip curling at the sight. "All this for a vague promise of treasure," he sighed, shaking his head.

"The one to deliver the body—giving him life—will be granted eternal life and wisdom," Samira added with a note of importance, and the precision of one who had heard it many, many times.

"Eternity is a long time," Jack warned philosophically. "So, your father is seeking his own just rewards. Everyone has something to gain from something. Which is all well and good, except we've a much larger problem." He pointed to the sky. "It's dark, which means we'll be spending the night on top of this wretched rock. Might I suggest, that we pick up this argument, _after_ we learn if we can live to see another day."

Jack motioned Asaid and Hassim over, waiting until Samira had stalked out of hearing range, before he spoke. "So, what do you make of this? Rahal killed the Keeper, and then took the… body-thing?" He allowed a flutter of his hand to embellish.

Both men shuddered. "It's difficult to imagine, how one would have achieved such a thing. And such actions would risk being sent to the seventh level of Hell."

In fact, the feat seemed unfathomable. But, given the evidence at hand, they were obligated to accept that Rahal had found a way, a testimonial to his resolve, and willingness to do anything.

"Yes, well for the moment, just for the sake of argument, let's just assume that the child isn't as accomplished a liar as her father. The grander question is what does it mean? And more importantly and specifically, what does it mean to us?"

Trading perplexed looks, the two crewmen frowned. "The djinn would most certainly desire Da'ud returned," Asaid began thoughtfully.

"And would most certainly be looking to avenge the death of their master," Hassim added, in solemn earnestness.

Jack sighed, running a tired hand along the curve of his mustache. "Very well, then. Carry on."

The men were uncharacteristically quiet as they set to gathering what firewood they could, and make preparations for the night. Such work would usually be carried out amid a flurry of good-natured insults, or singing, but now they moved in a strained silence, responding to the infrequent comments in hushed tones.

A panicked shriek brought them to an abrupt halt, drawing their weapons out of reflex, centering their aim on a torch bobbing toward them, the brush shaking and twigs, snapping under a heavy-footed approach. Jack drew his pistol with one hand, stepping to put Kate behind him. She drew her weapon as well, if for no other reason than to have it to hand, if Jack might be in need of a second. She glanced quickly, checking, to find that Gibbs was the nearest to be carrying extra shot and powder, a small point that soon could be significant.

Against the night's shadows came the darker figure of a man, and Rahal broke from the forest, the flames glinting bright in his eyes, drawing up short at the sight of the weapons aimed at him.

"You don't belong here," he hissed, panting from his run. "Damn you! Away!" He punctuated his demand with a vicious swipe of his torch.

"We just came up here to make sure all was aye." Jack began to move forward, but then remembered Kate behind him, and halted. A finger lifted at his side signaled that the men should lower their weapons. "We grew a bit concerned when we hadn't seen you all day; thought perhaps we might have said something unfriendly-like." He flashed one of his best placating, though exaggerated, smiles.

In a feverish, silent chant, Rahal's lips moved, his wild eyes locked on the box cradling the blue egg, haunted, like a starving animal forced to surrender its last meal. He glanced furtively from one face to another, shifting on his feet as he battled with the need to run. It was unclear, if it was the fact that they were pirates that disarmed him so, or if it was just that someone was there.

Finally Rahal broke and ran, screaming like a crazed madman as he dodged between the pirates and dove for the egg. The men lunged to stop him, but Jack waved them off.

Clutching the egg, Rahal brandished his torch like a sword, beating back anyone who dared to go near. "It's mine! You can't have it! I've spent my whole life looking for this."

Jack shoved his pistol in his belt and displayed both hands, in an attempt to pacify. "Easy, mate. Either we work together, or no one gets out of here."

The wind rose, a desert-like blast stirred the dirt at their feet, building until it whorled up, forcing them to shield their eyes. The ground around the drawings blew, and yet they remained intact. Jack's hand came around to his back and groped for Kate's, taking a firm grip when he finally found her.

"It's mine." Rahal drew a ragged breath, falling back as if the building wind were a great hand on his chest, driving him back, away from the clearing... away from the symbols. He cackled a laugh. "You'll be gone—you'll all be gone—but I'll still be here. Eternity; that's what I'll have, everlasting eternity… and a rich man."

"There is no where else to go, Father." Forgotten on the far side of the clearing, Samira shoved her way closer. "We've run all we can. Sooner or later, there will only be you and me. Then what?"

"We'll get away."

"How?" she demanded, sounding much more sane than her father. "With one of those ships? We can't manage them alone; we would need help."

"No; they only want Da'ud." Rahal's eyes rolled radically with indecision. "With his wisdom, we can find a way."

"But you won't have his wisdom, until we arrive at the Gate," she pleaded. "And we can't get to the Gate, if we don't have help. We need these people."

Samira's motivations were unclear; perhaps she was negotiating for the lives of the pirates, or, more narrowly, for the survival of herself and her father. Kate strained to ask what would happen after they no longer needed the crew of the _Black Pearl_.

"Where is this supposed Gate?" Jack broke in.

The sound of Jack's voice caught Rahal unaware, and he momentarily struggled to answer. "West."

Jack chuckled. "Aye, well, forgive me for pointing the slight flaw in this grand scheme, but there's a fair amount of _west_ out there; keep going far enough, and you wind up being east again. Counter-productive, I would wager."

"West—we must go west." Rahal chanted. "Da'ud will guide us."

"Correct me if I'm incorrect, but I have this overwhelming suspicion that Da'ud has been somewhat mum on the matter, to date." Jack gave a measured pause, letting that thought sink in with Rahal. "What guarantees are there, if you do go to sea, these…. things don't go with you? We've seen what happened on the last ship, mate. Unless you can contain those things, somehow, no one is going anywhere."

"Take us. You could take us." Rahal's wild eyes focused on Jack, his scheming horrifyingly transparent.

"Not bloody likely. Thanks to your little ghost stories about monsters in the water, I can't even get to me ship."

"There will be eternal life… and riches… for all." Rahal's irrationality was building, his mania-tangled mind giving over to desperation.

Jack shook his head, waving away the likelihood. "I've heard that one before."

A quick glance at the faces of the pirates indicated that no one was intrigued by that offer.

"You must take us." Rahal's eyes shifted, frantically looked from one person to the other as he groped for an answer.

"Can't help you, mate. I'll not risk those things going aboard me ship—even if I could get to her—which I can't—so I won't." Jack's off-handed, casual manner was having a little calming effect Rahal.

"You must."

Jack rolled his eyes, and stared at the sky, squinting against the rising dust. "Can't hear a word you're saying." He finally brought a glaring stare down to Rahal. "You want us to help you—just like you wanted Perrineau to help you? Might we expect the same just reward as you gave Perrineau?"

"It had to be."

A whirring overhead cut Jack short, he and his men freezing in place, tilting an ear, and looking up.

"No, Father! He was good to us."

"It had to be… for _all_ of them," he rasped, seemingly oblivious to the increasing sound collecting.

Samira's face froze in slack-jawed shock. "All? You mean Alice, too? And Marie?"

"They had to be fed."

A shocked gasp, and then angered grumble rippled from one pirate to another. They coiled, ready to strike; only Jack's quelling hand constraining them.

The sound overhead built, snarling amid the flap of wings. Jack glanced skyward, torn between Rahal, his grip still firmly on Kate's hand. He took another step forward, stumbling back at another swipe of Rahal's torch.

"But Alice?" Samira's small body quivered with hurt and rage, her voice quaking. "She was my friend! She played with me. She gave…"

Samira let out a cry of desperation laced with finality, and raced at her father. Gibbs made a lucky grab, catching her by the arm as she passed him, but with surprising strength, she wrested free. Rahal fell back several more steps, to avoid a collision as she dove toward him, but she pulled up at the last moment, seething.

"No more, Father!" She lunged, and made a well-aimed grab, her fingers curling around the chain at his neck. Her voice was a tight whisper. "No more." Setting her jaw, she yanked the necklace free.

Shocked, Rahal's mouth moved wordlessly, his eyes going round first to surprise, and then to terror. "No. I've seen you safe."

The flap of wings grew. Like hounds to the hunt, the djinn circled, sniffing, the leathery beat building, thrumming in their ears. Ignoring the demons, Samira stood rigid in the swirling maelstrom of dust and leaves, her hair lifting in spidery snakes around her face. She stared at her father, holding the chain in her hand, the medallion flashing molten amber in the light. Jack tugged at her arm, but she woodenly resisted.

The rush of wings was undeniable now, gathering at the perimeter of the clearing, and building inward, swooping. The men ducked, swinging blindly. Torches had been hastily lit, but there weren't enough for everyone. The men instinctively formed a circle in the small space, forming a defensive ring around those who were unarmed.

Gnarled, ebony-eyed face and bared teeth, darted directly in Kate's face, and she shrieked. Swearing, Jack abandoned his attempts with Samira, and dove to Kate's defense. Seizing a torch as he passed, he drove Kate to the ground, and stood over her as the distorted images swarmed.

The wind shifted, drawn on the wake of the djinn as their paths collected, eddying into a vortex around Rahal. In an increasing gyre, the wavering images blurred Rahal's outline, going faster and faster, until a spinning column solidified. Flames burst at his feet, and Rahal screamed, his final dying wail lost in a cyclonic shriek, as the volution elevated, and then disappeared into the night sky.

At some point, the journal had fallen from Kate's waistband and lay on the ground a short distance away. It burst into flames, burning with a bellow-driven intensity, and yet singeing nothing around it.

The stillness that blanketed the clearing was almost deafening; the wind had stopped. Hesitant, Jack slowly rose, giving Kate a hand up. Breathless, he gave her a silent, questioning look, and she nodded back. Unharmed.

A pulsating orange glow illuminated the velvet sky over the bay. Jack led Kate with him, to the hill's edge, to look down at the _Hersilia_, ablaze, flames licking hungrily out of her ports. He looked anxiously toward the _Pearl,_ and for a gut-wrenching moment, saw her profile flaring hot, then gasped with relief, when he realized it was only the reflection of the fire touching her; the _Pearl_ sat serenely on her anchors, a dark silhouette amid the watery firefly reflections. Heaving a quivering sigh, Kate stepped into Jack's arms, and they clung together.

"Are they gone?" It was Gibbs who spoke first, rolling his eyes warily.

Wishfully hoping, but afraid to be prematurely optimistic, they peered up into the night, but saw only trees, a vaulted sky of stars, and a half-moon ducking behind some thin clouds. They waited, holding their breath, but all that remained in the aftermath was the rattle of insects, and their own racing hearts.

"We'll assume nothing," Jack announced. "Keep a watch and mind the fires, Mr. Gibbs."

Jack's voice delivering orders snapped the men's attention back, providing them with a new focus, with Gibbs hard on them to snap to. A meager fire was set, but there was only enough firewood to nurture it for a short time; all too soon it was reduced to coals, and then the glowing domes of ash collapsed into the fading embers, leaving the camp in darkness, with nothing but companionship to break the chill.

As far as food went, Rahal and his daughter had gleaned everything there was to be had; one would be forced to range far, to find anything edible, and that was nigh impossible in the dark. A water gourd had been found in the cave, but only a few sips sloshed inside. Jack passed it on to Kate and Samira, who shared it. Kate offered her last bit to Jack, but he resolutely declined. "Not until they do," he said, nodding toward the other men.

For the longest time, Samira sat on a rock, staring blankly across the bay at the black horizon. Having finally burned to the waterline, the _Hersilia_ collapsed and sank onto her keel, the shallow waters leaving her dark hulk high, outlined by dying flames. Kate longed to help, to ease the girl's anguish, but there was little to be done. Earlier, she had fallen into Kate's arms and sobbed. Now, emotionally exhausted, she stared, everyone in the camp giving her a wide berth. Eventually, Kate was able to gently urge her down to the ground at the rock's base, and laid her across Kate's lap, the child's small body sagging almost immediately, and was soon asleep.

Jack moved about the dark figures hunched around the camp, quietly encouraging those on watch, lest he disturb those resting, the faint clatter of his oddments sometimes the only way of marking his path in the dimness. He worked his way around to where Kate sat, and crouched down next to her, his hand brushing her arm.

"You're cold."

"I'm fine."

He laid a light hand on her arm, verifying what he already knew. "You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

He made a noise in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a groan. "Do you ever say that, and mean it?"

Jack shed his weapons, and with a bit of maneuvering, wedged himself between Kate and the rock then wrapped his arms around Kate, Samira still solidly asleep in her lap. The night air trapped in his clothes was chilling, but their body temperatures soon equalized. Kate leaned her head back, snug under Jack's chin, her eyelids growing heavy. Warm and safe, exhaustion began to settle in, but her mind was still in too much turmoil to sleep.

"Why was Barker so anxious to get us here?" she murmured.

She felt Jack smile. "On the hoof, darling," he announced quietly, smoothing some stray of her hairs from his face. "What better way to make a fast profit, than to have the cargo deliver itself?"

"Bastard."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "I'm afraid I've been thinking something much less suitable, even to _your_ delicate ears." His stab held some truth; unfortunately, when provoked, she did possess a vocabulary that few would consider lady-like.

Kate wasn't sure if it was pity or hate that she harbored for Rahal. On the one hand, he had been trapped in a self-inflicted hell, with no way of knowing if he ever did manage to escape, he wouldn't wind up taking his pestilence with him. On the other hand, with cold calculation, he had callously used everyone around him.

"My God!"

"God had nothing to do with it, luv," Jack said, their minds traveling the same line of thought. "Rahal couldn't get off the island, until he contained those things, and yet he couldn't achieve his final reward, because he couldn't get off the island."

The hunter had become the hunted, his salvation unattainable, maybe not existing at all. He had his prize, but at what cost? The precious egg was like money to a drowning man, valuable, but not what he needed at the time. "It's like some kind of a Greek fable, perpetual torment in a self-created hell."

Kate smoothed back the glossy hair from Samira's face, gone angelic in sleep. "The things that man subjected this poor child to... his own daughter."

"Unfortunately, just because a man knows how to start a child, doesn't make him the wisest of persons." Jack pressed his lips to the side of Kate's head then rested his chin on her crown. "A man with his own purposes doesn't often see the peril of others." He chuckled quietly, looking down at Samira. "Good thing she did it, because I was about ready to shoot the bastard meself. Can't abide any man that will kill women and children, just to save his own ass."

There was an odd ring in his voice that made Kate wish she could have seen his face, but then, she was confident that he would have had it carefully arranged before she ever looked. Instead, she considered again, the damages wrought by one man.

"Bastard."

Jack laughed softly, as if musing at a private joke. "I think you called him that, already."

"And I'll use it again," she huffed. Her shoulders twitched, Jack's arms tightened briefly, attempting to quell her anger. "I don't appreciate someone using me, like I'm a side of beef."

"Ah," he began, dreamily, his breath blowing warm. "Said side of beef has the loveliest, long legs I have ever witnessed. It's enough to give me a cockstand, every time I see a roast."

As they quietly laughed together, the mention of food made Kate's stomach rumble. Jack's humor suddenly faded, and his arms tightened again.

"I thought I would, at least, be able to keep you warm and fed." His voice was roughened with regret and self-recrimination.

"I'm fine"

"Oh?" His fingers splayed where they rested at her middle. "And that's just a couple of wolves you've in there."

"I'm fine. It's only one night." She thought better of telling him of her experiences during the Rising. They had gone for days with nothing more than a handful of oats and cold water. Ultimately, the officers slaughtered their mounts, in order to stave off starvation just a bit longer.

"Aye?" Jack made another skeptical noise, shifting indignantly. "I've been watching; you had naught at mid-meal, and you drank your breakfast. The day before was barely any better," he muttered under his breath. "Crawling around in the dirt, groveling for food doesn't suit you either."

"I wasn't _groveling."_ Kate patted his hand, the gesture failing to erase his tension. "I was gathering, no different that the rest of the foragers. I felt useful for once."

"You deserve better… someplace nice… and decent."

"Like where?" She recalled a conversation much like this one before, a particular tone in his voice making her stomach knot. "Here?"

Jack shrugged just a little too nonchalantly; she could feel his body tightening. "If you like… if not," he added quickly, as she sputtered in disbelief, "then some where… similar."

What he was suggesting made her stiffen. "_This_ isn't what I want," she said, with as much conviction as she could manage.

"Then, what is?" The question came with an edge of challenge, but underneath, an undertone of doubt, and a bit of bafflement.

"I thought you knew." Kate bit her lip, saddened and disappointed that he felt it necessary to ask. How many times had she told him, a single, basic request that he seemed reluctant to accept?

Easing Samira from her lap, Kate jerked the compass from his belt and, over his objections, flipped it open. The compass had been less than decisive when she had done this before, less than a month ago; she knew looking to it now, to prove her point, could be disastrous. Before, it had spun. No decision. No indications. No answers. Indecision hadn't plagued here then; she had known then the same as what she knew now. Perhaps the powers of the instrument were overstated, a myth. And yet, she had seen Jack staring at it, with increasing frequency, indicating that he set at least some store in it. That was enough for her.

In the moonlight's silver-shroud, the dial was easily seen, straight and unwavering, right at Jack. One corner of his mouth pulling up, he gently put his hand over it and clicked it shut.

He cleared his throat, his lowered eyelids hooding his thoughts. "Not all of us have destinies so clearly defined."

Ever the optimist, it wasn't like Jack to be so fatalistic, already resigned to what he thought to be beyond his control.

"I'd like to fancy that we all are allowed at least a little something, just to help keep hope." Amid her long sequence of separations and losses, that philosophy had been what made her life worth living, snatching at the scant breadcrumbs of happiness life dropped her way.

He kept his gaze steady on the black box, stroking its polished surface with his thumb. "You think the powers that be are that clever?"

"You have the _Pearl_."

His eyes came up slowly to meet hers with both accusation and resentment. "And you had a life."

Suddenly, she saw a pattern developing: the desire to find her a place, the focus on what he imagined she had once had, and the solid refusal to accept what she claimed.

She swallowed as hard as he had just moments before. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

For the first time in weeks, in spite of the darkness, she saw Jack's curtain close. He looked away, but it wasn't necessary; the barrier was firmly in place. She wasn't surprised, but she was disappointed. For a time, she had thought they were past that, comfortable enough with each other to be able to forego the deceptions.

Of greater significance, was that he hadn't opened the compass in front of her, for his own purposes—ever—and seemed apprehensive that she might ask him to do so then. There was no mistaking that he had recoiled, making a face, when the needle veered directly at him.

No spinning. No indecision. Just him. And he had gulped, like a man singled out for the gallows.

Grimly silent, Jack urged her back into his arms, overtly ignoring her question. She didn't resist, but nor did she feel the same as she had before. Slowly, her eyes grew heavy. A few moments ago, she had been astir, with questions and no answers. Now, she had more answers than she cared to think. In the midst of trying to sort it all out, sleep took her over.

Sometime later, she awoke to Jack's hand seeking hers, his night-chilled rings cold against her fingers. Finding what he sought, he gripped tightly, not just as a show of affection; he was hanging on. She moved slightly, in hopes of seeing his face, but his head was turned, looking toward the water, entrenched in thoughts that took him far from where they sat.

She slipped her arm around him, and held on, a fragile anchor, in their tumultuous world.


	20. Chapter 20: A Matter of Choices

**Chapter Twenty: A Matter of Choices**

**Kate** woke with her head still pillowed on Jack's chest as he gently shook her, briefly touching his lips to her forehead when her eyes opened. "We're off," was all he said, and wriggled out from under her.

He rose amazingly—and irritatingly—gracefully, for one who had just spent the night on the ground, propped against a tree. Struggling to rouse, Kate shook Samira, whose head was resting heavily on her leg, staggering with stiffness when she finally stood. Samira rose unsteadily to her feet, one side of her face ridged by the folds of Kate's skirts, her eyes puffed and reddened from the night before, but stolid and somber, as they made ready.

The camp was already astir. A strange calm, that they didn't trust, shrouded the men while they made their preparations, wondering if the past few days had been a dream, the only tangible, disproving evidence being that everyone suffered under the same delusion. From all indications, it was over: the markings on the ground and the face of the cave were gone, the ashes of the burned journal whisked away, all without a trace. It would have been easy to believe none of it ever existed, except for the vision of Rahal being carried off in a flaming swirl that was indelibly etched in everyone's mind, and the opened box, the ancient straw strewn on the ground, its precious contents gone. Factoring in that they had suffered no attacks through the night, reality began to congeal.

"Cap'n!" Gibbs' anxious shout from the edge of the drop-off jerked Jack around. Gibbs pointed a rigid arm at the bay below. "Look!"

The pink-tinged light of dawn was just elbowing its way into the sky, the world flat and without dimension in the chilly grayness. On the bay's steel-colored glass, roughed in wandering rifts by the stirring breeze, sat the _Hersilia's _blackened skeleton, only a few of her ribs and fragments of a broken spine visible. Serenely stalwart, the _Clothilde_ and the _Black Pearl_ still sat on their moorings. What caught everyone's eye, however, was the dark trail of longboats, stringing from the _Pearl_ toward shore.

"Bloody hell," Jack breathed. "The bastards do have a conscience."

A heavy flutter overhead, far too reminiscent of the djinn, caused everyone to duck, relieved to see the blue and yellow plumage of Cotton's parrot alighting on a limb just above eye level. Giving the group an imperious, beady stare, he ruffled his wings, as if calling everyone to order, and then croaked, "Welcome aboard!"

"Welcome yourself," Jack growled, relief soon replaced by irritation. "I've a mind dinner might be _very_ near."

Squawking in protest, the parrot launched away in a vivid flurry, soaring down into the trees below, back toward shore. Everyone exchanged uncertain looks, and yet, the bird's proclamation was oddly conclusive, and they breathed a little easier.

"What of that, Cap'n?" asked Asiad, pointing to the ornate box, on its side in the dirt.

Jack looked down, his lip curling in disgust. "The one who wants it can carry it. Otherwise, the worms are welcome to the ruddy thing."

It was a sentiment shared by all, each sidling around it, Samira passing without a second glance. She fell in line as the pirates filed down the hill, retracing their same circuitous path back to Bienveillant.

**The** men were cautiously jubilant as they tromped through the forest, back down to the plantation grounds. Greeted by an ad hoc reception committee, there was an enthusiastic reunion, and an even more joyous celebration, when it was learned that the camp had also passed the night without an attack.

Jack separated from the merriment at the sight of the longboats on shore, and "the mutinous traitors", as he had so gently referred to them, milling about. With a determined stride and facial expression that caused many to fall away from his path, he met them with his fingers coiling toward his weapons.

"What, in all that lurks in those empty buckets you call heads, made you decide _now_ it was safe?" he seethed.

"'im, sir," one called Stoneridge said, stabbing a thumb over his shoulder indicating Cotton's parrot.

Jack snorted, swiping at the air. "Well, at least someone on the ship has some sense. Not sure how much credence we should put in the judgment of a bloody bird, but what else have we to go on?" He took time to drill each one, with a thunderous glare that drove them back a step. "You _shall_ all be dealt with directly. Count on that!"

Reeling away, he skidded to a halt in mid-stride to stab an accusing finger at the parrot. "I'm holding you personally responsible for this."

Gibbs pulled up before Jack. The man's face was an open book; it was never difficult to perceive when he had something on his mind, and it was a very active mind, indeed.

"Yes?" Jack asked expectantly.

"Cap'n, would you still be mindin' the _valuables_, in yonder warehouse?" Gibbs slyly arched one brow, waiting.

Knowing Gibbs as well as he did, it shouldn't have taken Jack as long as it did, to follow the direction of Gibbs' thoughts. "Ah, yes, I do! And how much of said _valuable_ is yet available to be valuable?"

"Eight casks," Gibbs announced with gusto, rocking on his toes.

Of course! The rum. Not gold, nor silver nor jewels, nor even something shiny, but the epitome of treasure to every man that ever braved the high seas.

Jack's jaw twisted to one side, as he posed careful consideration. "It would be a shame to overlook something so rare."

"Sinful, it would," Gibbs agreed, shaking a saddened head, struggling to wipe the glee from his face.

"Very well, Master Gibbs! Leave us not be ungrateful to the generous hand of Providence. Load it up!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" Gibbs snapped a sketchy salute, and then scurried off on his appointed task.

Turning, Jack's eyes caught Kate standing next to him, and he heaved a long sigh. "There's not a chance—albeit vague—that you might consider…" He cast a yearning look at her, and then a speculative one toward the deserted house.

"Absolutely not!" she retorted, following his gaze, and then shuddered. It was impossible to block out the images of what they had transpired in the cellars of the empty estate. "_Nothing_ would drag me back into there."

Slumping with disappointment, Jack turned, and then slapped the side of his head. "What have I been thinking?" Kate took it as a rhetorical question, until she saw the sly look. "You fancy horses, don't you?"

"Yes, I grew up with them, but…" She stopped short at the suggestive lilt in his voice, and the devilment in his eyes as he directed her attention across the grounds. "The barn?" she gawked.

He laughed at her shocked look. "Don't tell me you've never…?"

"That's not the question I'm prepared to answer," she sputtered, brushing industriously at a non-existent spot on her skirt, hiding her heating face. There was no reason to be embarrassed by a tumble in the hay; that particular setting had tended to render Brian exceptionally exuberant… several times… more than several times. Still, it was an intriguing thought. It wasn't difficult to imagine lying in the loft with Jack, his naked body wildly dark and tan amid the pale gold of the straw.

Gibbs' approach cut her machinations short. Kate kept her face turned, until Gibbs had led a reluctant Jack away on a matter of duty, her cheeks still flaming long after they were gone.

**Any** remaining swag to be taken was hastily gathered, getting off the island being the priority. No one was more anxious to be away than Jack, but every man knew that there were duties to be done, before that could happen. Kate watched Jack as he oversaw the tasks. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and the groves along his nose and mouth were deeper.

When was the last time he had slept? She paused to think: probably their first night, in the house. She blushed; there had been little rest that night either. Sleeping had definitely not been their intention. The sum of it was that Jack had been going for days, on nothing more than the occasional brief snatch. It was only grim determination to be gone, and his sense of responsibility as captain, that drove him now.

As Kate turned to head for the gardens, to collect what she had already so laboriously gathered, a glaring oversight stood watching the press of activity: Samira. She touched Jack on the sleeve, drawing his attention. "What about her? We can't leave her here."

Jack took only a moment's consideration. "A pirate ship might not be her first choice," he cautioned. "We can drop her off, at the next port that appears likely. Or, she can stay with us—which is bloody unlikely—or she can stay here."

"She's just a child; she can't make that kind of a decision. Can't you—we," Kate corrected quickly at his sharp look, "just make her go with us?"

"And, if that's against her wishes?"

"It would be for her own good."

"I see," Jack said thoughtfully, narrowing a skeptical eye. "And how would you be feeling nowadays, regarding the decisions your father made _for your own good_, hmm?"

Jack's pointed query recalled too clearly when Kate's mother had died, and her father had sent her—against her will—to live with strange relatives.

"That was different," she huffed. "It meant losing my family."

"Really?" The one word dripped with skepticism. "I'm sure your father had all the best intentions, did he not?" He arched a quizzical brow, waiting for her to come to the only conclusion possible, nodding in satisfaction when she finally did. "She's what, twelve… thirteen? I was at sea, at that age."

"And I was home playing with my brothers… and my dolls," Kate added, defensively. "Besides, it's not the same for a girl. That is hardly an age to be left on your own."

"For most, yes," Jack equivocated. "But I have a suspicion—given her past—we're dealing with the exception, as opposed to the rule. It has to be her choice, darling."

Kate started to object again, and he held up a hand, cutting her off. "Are you prepared to be cursed, for the rest of _her_ life, for ruining it, eh? Good, bad or otherwise, you'll be blamed, for what she'll always imagine as could have been."

Eternal popularity wasn't the issue. But Kate was well aware of the gnawing resentment that she harbored toward her father, her entire life, for having made a decision—against her vehement objections—that had forever robbed her of her family. Arguably, good had come of it, setting off a sequence of events that led her to Brian, and then Jack, but that didn't mean the route her father chose would have been her only path to happiness. The "what-ifs" were a tall mountain, all pivoting around a choice that had been made for her.

"All right. We'll let her choose. And what about them?" Kate waved a hand toward the forest and the _Clothilde's_ refugees.

"What would you have me do?" Jack sounded uncharacteristically futile. "I can't very well round them up, and it's not as if I can just call them in. They're hiding because they are afraid. You want me to hunt them down and drag them in under protest, just to prove to them that we mean them no harm?"

"Harm from what?"

"_Pirates_." He said the single word with an all-encompassing finality. "Of people—of being caught—again—you name it! Suggest something I haven't tried, and I'll do it!" he huffed. "I've sent men out, looking, calling, leaving food as bait, to lure them in. Nothing! If you can think of something else, I'm listening." He softened, realizing he was venting his frustration on the wrong person. "Sorry, luv. It's just, you can't save the entire world."

He was correct. The first thought was to wait a little longer, but not a soul could abide the thought of another day, more than necessary, on Bienveillant. Jack had already ordered the _Clothilde_ to be brought to the riverside dock, making her stores more available to those left behind. It had taken a good part of the morning, to tow her to the mouth of the river then inch up the river by her kedge anchors, like long fingers groping for the bottom, pulling herself along by her capstan. Any crewman involved with the task was sweat-soaked, by the time her mooring lines were secured, but were heartened by knowing it was a labor of mercy—something they could all be in need of, one day.

"Tell the men, well-done," Jack told Gibbs, nodding in approval. "I see our wastrel over there." He pointed Kate's attention at Samira, a short distance away, watching the _Clothilde_ being brought in. "I suppose now is as good of a time as any. C'mon." He sounded less than enthusiastic as he took Kate by the arm.

Samira blinked, caught unprepared when Kate asked her plans.

"You haven't been thinking about that?" Kate tried to curb her frustration.

"No." The answer wasn't offered as an excuse, just an honest reply. Kate was momentarily stricken speechless, having forgotten the reluctance of the young to think about anything beyond the very moment they lived in.

"What would you like, Samira?" Kate began, gently persuasive. "You need to think about…"

"You can either come with us, until we can find you a place," Jack cut in. The girl instantly recoiled at the suggestion. "Or, you can stay here."

No one could accuse Jack of sugar coating anything.

"I've never had a home," Samira wore the wary look of a child unsure of why the adults surrounding her are is so worried. "I've traveled with Father my whole life." She looked lovingly toward the grand house, and then the overseer's cottage further away. "I could have a home here."

"You won't be alone." That seemed an important point to Jack. "Chances are there's a goodly number of others here, but they're slaves, and bondsmen, and such. There is no guarantee what kind of reception…"

"I don't care." Samira's jaw set, her shoulders squaring. "Don't worry about me. I know how to spear fish, and gather clams, and catch crabs, and find nuts, and dig roots and start a fire…" The words flowed as her enthusiasm increased.

Kate reluctantly conceded that Samira was probably more capable than many adults. Considering all she had seen and survived, making her way among a few strangers could be a minor task. Making her change her mind now, would be tantamount to physical coercion, and no one was of a mind for that. Kate wished she had just a little of Samira's confidence, and that Samira might acquire just a bit of caution.

"Very well," Jack conceded with a sigh. "A woman that knows her mind; 'tis a rare attribute." He gave Kate a tight-lipped smile; he did love it when he was right. "I'll have Gibbs see to it there are provisions sufficient ashore, for a couple of weeks. Once they see us leave," he went on, tilting his head toward the hills, "I doubt if it will be long before they come trickling down from those hills, driven by hunger, if nothing else."

To her, the matter was settled. Samira turned and skipped off toward a swing that had been fashioned from a live oak limb, courtesy of some of the men; it would seem pirates weren't entirely numb to a young girl's charms.

**The** sun had just crossed its zenith, when Jack appeared at the garden gate. While the _Clothilde_ was being secured, Kate had gone off—with Jack's knowledge, permission, and two escorts—to collect her own version of treasure, as he so succinctly put it. She hid a smile as she straightened from cutting chamomile. He looked so uncomfortable, and out of place, as he minced his way toward her, avoiding the plants, as if he thought them carnivorous. She had once heard an axiom about wise men knowing where they belonged. Based on that, Jack had possessed the Wisdom of Solomon, because it was eloquently clear that he fully understood his place was not there.

Looking up, he stopped to prop his hands on his hips. "What are you looking at?" he demanded, instantly defensive.

It was painful to wipe away her smile, and then said, "Nothing," her ears aching as she instilled every shred of innocence she could manage.

He gave her a narrow look. Apparently, her act wasn't convincing, but he waved it off as he did anything he didn't wish to discuss. Judging by the depth and extent of the furrow between his brows, he had other matters on his mind.

She bent back down, busily cutting the fragrant blossoms from their stems, and dropping them in the trug at her feet. "Is it time to go?"

"Yes." He nodded vaguely, distracted.

There was a sound in his voice that caused Kate to straighten. She waited for him to continue, as he stood with his head down, one hand balled a fist at his side, the other in a white-knuckled grip on his sword. He cleared his throat, gulped, and then cleared his throat again.

"This is your last chance." He tried to instill a casual note, but failed miserably, the words grating out in a tight rasp.

"Last chance for what?" The last handful of flower heads dropped from her hand, forgotten. Kate had a premonition as to what he was alluding, but it could often be dangerous to make assumptions when Jack was involved.

With effort, his eyes finally met hers. "This." The grip on his sword was so tight only two fingers could be pried away, to indicate the surrounding plantation.

Kate's heart sank, her own throat seizing. He was giving her a final choice—her choice. She could stay, and become the proprietress of Bienveillant, a lady of position, or she could decline, and return to a ship full of pirates… and him. Fist-handed, flex-jawed and anguish-laden stare, Jack struggled to maintain his mask, making the offer only because of previous pledges.

For her, there was no contest. A part of her wanted to let him wait, make him suffer before answering, for being so hardheaded, refusing to believe what she had repeatedly told him. But from all appearances, the mere task of asking had torn at him enough.

His insistence that she never be left alone meant they could rarely be alone, like then. At that moment, a simple kiss could have told him everything. But with Stevens and Petrov standing at the gate, arms loaded, eager to be away, it was impossible.

Jack followed her line of sight, and stiffened, obviously under the impression that she was suggesting that he might not want an audience: bad news was on the horizon.

"Be off," he called over his shoulder, his eyes steadily on her. "Inform Master Gibbs that we'll be there directly."

Kate allowed Jack to tell her when Stevens and Petrov were out of earshot. Finally, he reluctantly nodded.

Kate stepped closer, intent on his face. "Ask me again."

Jack twitched, swaying, as he braced himself. Kate moved closer, laying the flat of her hand on the bare skin of his chest, her skirts brushing his knees. "Ask me again," she insisted, in a near whisper.

His heart hammered under her palm, his breath coming in hitches. "Do you want this?" He gulped, wincing. "Are… are… you staying?"

Kate cupped his cheek, and kissed him, a long, languorous message.

With a quivering exhale, a crooked smile, half smug and half relieved, played faintly on his lips as he regarded her through a half-lidded gaze. "So it's like that, is it?" His hand came tenderly to her throat, the other coming to rest at the small of her back, his hips leaning into hers. "If only we could take this conversation elsewhere."

She batted his beard dangles with a teasing finger. "I'd take you right here, if that would help prove my point."

A hopeful golden grin broke wide, fading as he realized the folly. "Why do you women always make those offers, when it's absolutely impossible. Don't answer that!" he interjected. "It's a diabolical plot, I swear."

Kate cut off his complaint with another kiss, more thorough than the first, the sound of his name being called breaking them apart.

With a reluctant groan, Jack bent and picked up the garden trug at her feet. "Just remember, you can't say I didn't ask. Let's away."

There was a levity in Jack's rolling gait, and extra swagger as he steered her through the maze of garden paths, around the out buildings, and finally across the lawns, toward the landing, where a longboat awaited.

Kate's step slowed as they neared the dock, biting her lip as Samira skipped toward them to bid farewell.

"Are you sure we should leave her?"

Jack groaned, and dropped his head to his chest. "She's not alone," he pointed out barely patient. "Shall we drag her, kicking and screaming, because that's what is going to take, if you want her to go with us?"

"Just seem so scary, to just leave her."

"Do you think she would be any more at ease on a ship full of pirates?"

Jack was correct, as always. She had become so comfortable among the pirates of the_ Black Pearl_ it was easy to forget what a fearsome-looking lot they were. To a girl of twelve or thirteen, the prospect of being on a ship with them had to have been terrifying.

"Maybe we should stay long enough, until someone comes down, to make sure that she's all right." Perhaps it was just maternal instincts rising, but every voice in her head screamed objections to leaving someone so young alone.

Jack smiled, as if Kate were the child. "That would be the ultimate conundrum: waiting for someone to arrive, that isn't going to arrive until after you're gone. Pirates, remember?"

He was right again. At that point, the greatest barrier to Samira's well-being was their presence.

Reluctantly, Kate conceded. "Guess we'd better be off."

Kate was more tear-choked than Samira as they bid their good-byes, Samira fueled by the confidence and security that can only spring from the naiveté of the young. She had no idea the dangers that might be awaiting her, and yet no one would ever convince her otherwise. For now, it was her strength and protection.

_Oh, to be that young, again._

Kate tried not to look back as the longboat pushed away, but finally surrendered to one last look, just to confirm that monsters hadn't yet risen and consumed the girl. Samira was nowhere to be seen, already off on her new life. Out from under the control of a possessed, and arguably deranged, father, Samira had to have been feeling as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from her thin shoulders. So small and waif-like, one had to be reminded of her toughness; she had already seen more, than most saw in a lifetime.

The boat that bore Kate and Jack was the last one away; to the person, they were grateful to be away. The best sight any of them could behold would to be that of Île du Bienveillant off the _Black Pearl's_ stern.

At the bow, grasping the painter line, Jack stood like the lifeboat's figurehead, as the longboat pushed across the water, pointing toward what he wanted most, his fingers drumming on his belts. As the ship loomed higher, Kate did feel a sense of relief. She was home, and safe, Jack's solid grip, as he handed her over the gunwale, making it just that much more comforting.

The crew was already busy with the task of preparing to make way, Gibbs hot on their tails.

"Well, at least the anchors held. See, I told you it would be a good anchorage!" he announced to Gibbs as he met them.

Jack set off to supervising, but caught Kate looking back toward shore, and rolled his eyes.

"God knows there's no animals left on that island to harm her." He offered the thought as if it were going to be a major comfort. Seeing that failed, he groped for something more. "If it will make you feel any better, at the next port, I'll send a merchant back, loaded. Would that help?"

"Thank you, Jack," So relieved, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, falling back quickly as he stiffened, jerking his head toward the surrounding men. "That does help. I'll sleep better."

He broke a quick laugh, and shook his head. "Then we'll all be resting better."

The anchors were hauled in record time, and the _Black Pearl_ was away.


	21. Chapter 21: Back to Basics

**Chapter Twenty-one: Getting Back to Basics**

**Jack **was in a vile mood before the anchors were catted; no one wished to face him alone. The _Pearl_ had barely cleared the mouth of the bay, before his sights narrowed on the perpetrators of "mutinously commandeering the _Pearl,"_ as he so delicately put it, each word razor-edged. Tempered by the constraints of his position, he still served as a conduit for the anger, and sense of betrayal, felt by every person that had been stranded on Bienveillant.

A matter too urgent to be left waiting, the moment the _Pearl _was well underway, court was convened.

Since it had been a majority of the crew that had been affected, Jack wisely decided that it would be virtually "everyone" that would sit in judgment. A council of four was selected as their judge and jury: Jack, by virtue of being captain, Gibbs and Kate, in their capacity as co-quartermasters, and by definition liaisons between crew and command, and Moya and Baines, as representatives of not only the crew, but those who had doubly suffered by being injured, rounding it out. Kate tried to decline, pointing out that she had no expertise on such matters, but the doomed men insisted, their unspoken hope being that she might have a steadying hand on their infuriated captain.

As the charges were read, the additional charge of failing to maintain the ship in an appropriate manner being thrown in by Jack—which given his mood, was an impossible standard—it became glaringly obvious that some stood unjustly accused. Mr. Kirkland was dismissed, without objection from either side; the man was no pirate, nor seaman enough to take part in any such intrigues.

Mr. Cotton was another dilemma. Serenely mute, he stood with his mates, his bird sitting equally stalwart on his shoulder, prepared to face their punishment. Jack's discomfiture at the prospect of condemning the man was obvious, a quick glance finding that the balance of the judgment council readily agreed.

"Mr. Cotton," Jack called. "You may stand away, sir. We've no issue with you."

"All for one!" the parrot croaked, snapping as close to attention as a bird might manage. Cotton remained motionless; his wishes were clear.

The word "mutiny" rang out amid the charges, since mutiny was indeed what it had been, the wresting of command from the captain, on the whim of a few. Gibbs had been ready enough to use the word, with eager support from many, but Jack seemed reluctant, using commandeering, brigandry and vulturous skullduggery, instead. His reticence to say it, however, by no means implied that he was any less incensed and affronted.

The accused were offered their moment of self-defense, but their excuses were awkward and feeble; blind fear never sounded persuasive after the fact, their pleas being met with stony faces.

"We were scared, Cap'n," pleaded one. "What with what Rahal said… what we seen."

"Twas cursed waters," put in another, earnestly.

"And…"

"Except all of a sudden this morning, it's not?" Baines snarled.

"Guilty" was announced only as a formality. Chastened and sweating, the group of twenty-three silently looked on, while possible sentences were listed. Kate was at a loss when asked for her suggestions for punishments, but Jack and Gibbs readily offered their proposals: flogging, keelhauling, marooning, hoisting, boiling water in their ears, hung by their thumbs, hock and heaving, thumb twisting, kissing the gunner's daughter, hot irons in their eyes, and whipped and pickled. Most Kate found too grisly to contemplate, but Jack and Gibbs' eyes lit with relish at each one, their choler echoed in the face of every person who had been forced to spend three nights on the hellish island.

Deliberations were brief. The _Black Pearl_ had been short-handed, before her arrival at Bienveillant. Now, following the loss of several, her crew was pressed even more thinly. That in mind, the brig—or death, as Jack had first eagerly suggested—or any physical impairment, as a result of floggings or the like, was out of the question, since it would have only led to more hardship for those who had already suffered.

Instead, they were sentenced to a month of silence, half-rations, loss of their shares, double watches, no grog, and—last, but certainly not least—a tongue lashing on a hourly basis from their captain, that being a spontaneous phenomena, above and beyond the council's ability to control. A piece of torn cloth was tied around the arm of each of the condemned, lest anyone forget, or confused as to who they were; violating the sentence would mean falling under the same punishments.

"This means you, too," Jack growled, with a narrow glare at Cotton's parrot. He stabbed a finger into the vivid breast feathers. "No talking, either. It will be double watches for you, just like the rest, and I don't let me catch you napping up in the masthead. I'll be watching." With a satisfied jerk of the head, Jack wheeled off.

**The **sun was a shimmering orb, just touching its skirt the horizon, on the verge of surrendering its possession of the sky to the night as Kate and Gibbs stood on the quarterdeck, the sound of Jack's haranguing carrying on the wind from amidships.

Gibbs shook his head sympathetically. "A floggin' woulda been more agreeable."

Kate tried not to look in the direction of the uncomfortable scene on the main deck, an all too common one, since the court's dismissal just a few hours earlier. "You think they know that?"

"Ohhhh, aye!" he said heartily, checking to see if Jack were within earshot. Gibbs waited, until Jack had stomped into his cabin, before elaborating. "Anyone's been on the raw side o' the Cap'n's tongue is painful aware."

From the instant the court had dissolved, Jack hovered on the heels of every condemned man with terrier-like persistence, his verbal barrages being met with hunched shoulders and beleaguered faces, with not a hope of solace. All things taken in, they should have considered themselves lucky, but, if they did, one couldn't tell by looking. Or, perhaps they were hiding it well, lest the captain see their displeasure, and things became worse. Truth be told, Gibbs made no attempt to conceal his animosity toward the condemned, giving no quarter when he eagerly picking up the assaults where Jack left off.

"Any other cap'n woulda put 'em over a gun, and spread their innards across those cane fields. The fish wouldn't 'ave been able to find enough left to eat."

The remainder of everyone else aboard, including Kate, they were grateful for the distraction. From the moment Jack's boot had touched the deck, he had become preoccupied and introspective, prone toward falling into distracted silences, staring, often times absent-mindedly fondling his compass, jerking his hand away, if Kate were to come near.

"Mister Kate!"

The guttural roar came from the Great Cabin, with enough volume to be heard over any noise, and enough force to send everyone scattering. Kate wasn't sure if she had been imagining it, or if the planks underfoot had vibrated.

"What on earth?" she muttered, frowning as she exchanged uncertain looks with Gibbs.

Gibbs cringed, rolling a cautionary eye. "He's in a mood." The voice of experience spoke volumes. "There be no peace tonight."

Kate squinted up at the sun. It was at least an hour, maybe closer to two, before dark; she hadn't gained the pinpoint accuracy at judging time that everyone else possessed. Still, the time of day offered no explanation as to what might have motivated Jack's outburst. Given his disposition, one man's guess would be as good as another.

The men she met coming down the gangway gave her a sympathetic look mixed, with a large measure of relief that it wasn't they who had been summoned into the sanctum of the captain's cabin. Two doffed their hats, murmuring words of condolences, knuckling their forelocks in a salute.

"Mister Kate!"

The planking of the gangway definitely vibrated that time.

"I'm coming!" She managed to glean only a little of the irritation from her voice; testiness would only feed Jack's irritability, but she had her limits.

"Go with God," murmured Marty, passing as she hesitated at the bottom curve of the balustrade, ducking lest he be seen.

Taking a deep breath, Kate commended herself to said deity, plus any others that might be willing to lend a helping hand, and went in.

Light banded the cabin in criss-crossing blades, through the skylight and stern windows, sun soaking the center of the room, the walnut paneling absorbing the brilliance before it could reach the corners. Jack stood in one shaft of light, at his chair, shedding his weapons, dropping them on the table next to his hat and pistol. She looked for some hint of his purpose in summoning her. He rarely referred to her as "Mister", and even rarely by her given name, unless in the depths of extreme emotion.

"Close the door."

It was an ominously simple request. No hint of his intentions there either, as he jerked the sash from his waist and tossed in atop the rest. But then, he was a master at hiding his thoughts.

Kate hesitated, as visions returned of the horrible fight they had before. It had started much the same, in that very room, with Jack in a mysterious mood, and she at a loss. Still, she did as she was bid.

"Lock it." There was a cold finality that momentarily froze her. It was a most unusual request—no, demand.

The metallic sound of the bolt sliding home was a final punctuation. Jack covered the distance between them in a matter of a few steps. Kate had barely turned before he had her in arms, his fingers coiled in her hair, his lips crushing hers. Urgent and demanding, his mouth knew hers too well, compelling her to him, as if she might be reluctant, as if she might not suffer the same drives.

He was wrong.

Jack took her with ferocity that should have represented weeks, not days, since he had her last. It was almost a competition, which one could show the other who wanted—needed—who the most, who burned the hottest. Clawing and raking, it wasn't romantic, just raw, base, primal need.

He drove her back, away from the door, stumbling on the edge of the rug. The force of his weight bent her back over the sea chest, coming up hard against the bulkhead. Hoisting her atop it, he wedged his hips between her legs, tugging at her bodice, nipping her neck and curve of her breasts. Choking back a welling giggle of excitement, her legs tangling in her skirts as she groped to guide him, bring him to her, let him take her right there.

With a frustrated growl, Jack lifted Kate away, his mouth never surrendering hers as he carried her to the table, where they fell together. Her world dissolved into a sequential blur of sensations: softly calloused hands on her legs, urgently rucking up her skirts, cool air on the backs of her bare thighs, the coarseness of the fabric of his breeches as their hands collided, fumbling at his flies, the coppery tang of someone's blood when a lip bitten, the wood of the table, hard against the knobs of her back, and finally, a hot rush as he slid home.

Jack gasped, shuddering, pausing to savor the moment then settled to his rhythm. The muscles of his back strained under her hand, steadying, urging, guiding, the heavy hair ornament clattering on the table at her ear, as her flesh absorbed each blow.

What was left of her consciousness spiraled down to a single center, an anchor in a twirling, heated, and breathless void. She bit off her cries into the linen folds of his shirt, her body responding by the fourth or fifth thrust, stroking, calling him to answer. He cupped her bottom, lifting her to drive deeper, intensifying his assaults. Then braced his head against hers, her hair muffling his groans as he spilled himself, drew a tremulous gasp, and then jerked again.

After, Kate heard nothing but her own breath, the blood pounding in her womb echoing the same pulse as the vein in his neck. Rubber-limbed, he rolled away, round-eyed. Aglow in more than the sunlight that pooled around them, they sprawled, their legs dangling over the edge. Gradually, her senses congealed, and the world returned in increments: Jack's ragged gasps beside her, the wood at her back vibrating with the thrum of the sails, and finally, footsteps overhead.

"And another thing!" Jack suddenly shouted. His startling volume that made Kate wince and cover one ear. He attempted to nod, but still lacked the strength to move and whispered, "That should keep them away a bit longer."

"You meant to scare them… and me?" It was impossible to argue with the outcome, but she bristled at being used as a piece in his little chess game. "You had me scared; I didn't know what to expect," she hissed.

"What was I supposed to do?" he shot back in a hoarse whisper then shifted to a high-pitched one. "'Darling, will you please come in here and help me with this cockstand?'" He snorted. "My way worked much more better. Desperate people do desperate things… and I was _most _desperate."

Complacently smug, Jack diverted his gaze back to the ceiling, basking in both his afterglow and genius.

"How did you know…?"

"Shh!" He put a finger to his lips, and then pointed at the skylight. The vents were still propped open, only a few steps from the helm. "Didn't think to close the ruddy thing." Exaggerating each word, he gave a half-shrug, dismissing the matter.

Kate looked up, her face heating as she wondered what might have been heard, or seen, and by whom.

_No secrets on a ship._

A thought occurred, and she stifled a giggle, Jack looking on in wary curiosity.

"Why do I feel like my parents, when they would sneak away, hoping we wouldn't catch them?" she snickered, covering her mouth. "Did you ever catch your parents?"

Kate realized her blunder too late: Jack's father, for the most part, had been absent through most of his childhood, a point of contention for him. He took her question good-naturedly, however, the sunbeam catching his gold as he smiled.

"Once." He shuddered. "That was enough."

He closed one eye as he calculated. "I must have been about five—no, six." He shook his head, to be rid of the thought. "They must have been making me sister; I would have been too young to remember if it had been me brother. Three visits, three proofs," he added on a grim note. "I'll have to say, I knew at the time, that there was something going on, but I had no idea it was done quite like that!"

Recovered sufficiently, he pushed up with a grunt, dabbing his temple with his sleeve as he put himself back into order, as Kate rose and smoothed her skirts. Settling his belts, his eyes darkened as he touched her cheek.

"I'm sorry." His voice caught. "To be coming at you like some rutting boar, treating you like a common street whore."

She smoothed the curve of his mustache, wiping away the droplets of sweat that had collected there. "If it will make you feel any better, the next time, I'll come at you."

His eyes lit at the prospect, a crooked smile growing in anticipation. "Promise?"

The hollow clunk of footsteps overhead drew her attention. "Just keep the children busy."

He bent and kissed her, taking the time that he hadn't before to explore every depth and crevice with tender care.

"This, by no means, means I shan't be looking for you tonight." There was a hopeful suggestion in his graveled purr. "I have first and middle watch, but I _will_ be back."

She slipped her hand to his neck, and kissed him with his same thoroughness. "That's just to make sure you don't forget."

While Jack finished reassembling himself, Kate leaned against the table, thoughtfully staring at the sea chest. Jack caught her look, and paused, frowning.

"What?"

"That trunk," she began slowly. Twice now, she had been pinned against it, and twice she had been sorely tempted to let Jack take her. "Some day… we'll have to try…"

Her voice trailed off, letting her eyes complete the suggestion. Jack swiveled, peering at the trunk with a new eye.

"Not entirely impossible," he mused, canting his head. "Never thought of it, but that doesn't mean we can't… experiment. It would be a first. Belay that!" he added quickly, holding up a hand. "It would be in me own best interest, if we were to pretend I didn't say that."

Kate stood close enough to roll her hips against his. "One could assume that it would be in my best interest, to make you forget all the _firsts,_ and make you focus on the _lasts_," she murmured, and kissed him.

He rolled his eyes, clamping his lower lip between his teeth, groaning. "You're going to be the death of me." He darted a look at the trunk, and then patted her hip. "Consider it done."

Jack reluctantly pulled away. Stopping at the doors, he gave her a final look over his shoulder that made her want him all over again. Slamming the bolt aside, he threw the doors open and swaggered out.

"What the bloody hell are you gawking at?" came a bellow as he stepped out on the deck. "Are you trying to catch a gull with that mouth hanging open, or is that just your normal look? Mind those tack lines! Those are an abomination!"

**With** the tally book under her arm, Kate reluctantly clumped down the companionway to the hold, drawing up short at the bottom. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, and groaned.

The hold was a disaster, of chaotic proportions, starting at the foot of the steps, and stretching off into the gloom, the contents of a plantation piled and crammed.

"Cap'n says as we're in need o' havin' the book squared away by the next port." Gibbs words rang in her ears.

_In that case, we'd better hope our course is across the Atlantic, because it's not going to take that long._

The herbs she had brought from the island needed tending, sorting, preserving and stowing, but the plunder too priority The urgency was understandable. Making port meant selling the swag, which would fill the pockets of every pirate—well, except those convicted. Twenty-three less shares to be taken meant a greater portion for the remaining others, another retribution for those who had been wronged. The take from the plantation was extensive, the rewards would be sizeable, but the twenty-three weren't going to be enjoying any of it. And just to add insult to injury, Booker and Santoro, the two who had been assigned by Gibbs to help her, were among the convicted. It wasn't lost on her that said duty—or "cleaning", as Jack referred to it—was another layer on their sentence.

Whatever the implications, her helpers' silence meant working in peace.

It would have been preferable to have the sun shining. The light through the hatches would have been a great help, plus it would have offered the relief of going above decks, to feel the sun on her face, clear her lungs of the dankness, and her skirts of the stench. But such was not the case. The need was pressing, and Jack had the watch for the next eight hours; the thought of a cold, empty bunk held little appeal, so there was little else to do.

The first task was the most difficult. With nothing more than a lantern held high, they rummaged out all the lamps and candle scones that could be readily found. Perching them on every available niche, Kate and her minions settled to work.

Her distaste for the hold hadn't lessened, the experiences on the _Hersilia_ not helping matters, causing her to jump at every odd wave slap on the hull, or pop of a plank. Gritting her teeth, she tried to focus on the homier sounds of the chickens crooning from their cages, or the complaining bleat of the goat. Jack and Gibbs could still be heard bellowing above decks, the voices were dulled, muted shadows of their original selves. The relative quiet was a blessing, a small one, but a blessing nonetheless.

All things considered, it was peaceful down there. Aside from the creaks of the hull, the thrumming of the sails reverberating, the gurgling rush of the water sliding past, and the periodic uneasiness, it was a bit of a haven. As she directed the sorting of the plunder, and made her careful notations, her mind began to drift from the gloom and dark.

In spite of the discomfort, she had an astounding thought: she was happy.

The realization was euphoric. She had everything she wanted, was exactly where she wanted to be. Even the hold took on a new perspective. She had Jack, she had a home, and in a vague way, a family.

She tried to think how long it had been since she had felt that way, but gave up when the calculations became too painful. Suffice to say, it had been a long time—too long. And yet, if anyone had tried to tell her three months ago, that her life would be taking a drastic turn, she would have never believed them; probably would have taken it as just another attempt to talk her out of taking desperate steps.

The captain of the _Melody_ had caught her at the rail several times, diverting her with rapid-fire conversation; he had sensed her intentions. She wished he were there now, to thank him. He had been right—whether he had really believed what he said, or not. There had been something better, something worth living for: Jack, and the pirates of the _Black Pearl_.

"No, no! That's silver; put it where the silver goes. And stack the books on top of the trunks over there, to keep them dry," she directed, as the ship leaned; the water sloshed, brushing the hem of her skirt.

Yes, she was down in a dark, dank, smelly hold, with convicted, mute-stricken pirates, on a ship bound for who knew where, with a notorious, scalawag for its captain… and she was happy.

**The** cabin blushed with the pink of dawn, when Kate woke to find Jack, swaying with exhaustion, at the side of the bunk. He began to undress, but his fingers fumbled at his belts and he dropped his arms, suddenly too heavy.

"Hold still," she scolded gently. "I don't know who these watches are harder on."

Heaving a motherly sigh, she set to peeling away his layers, catching him as he leaned precariously, first one direct, and then another. Once, she had seen him shed his clothing in a single, chrysalis-like motion, but she couldn't remember how he had done it, and was quite sure the method had been contingent upon having already shed his boots. Her grip loosened as she turned to drop his weskit on the stool, and he toppled forward, like a mast falling to a deck, face down into the bed, the purr of snoring coming softly from underneath a curtain of hair.

With his legs angled over the bunk's foot, the task of tugging off his boots was easier. Rolling his dead weight was akin to moving a butchered hog, but she finally managed to get him on his back, his legs dangling over the end. As she fumbled to unfasten his breeches, he roused from his torpor, smiling unseeingly at the ceiling.

"I need you, darling."

Kate chuckled quietly, thinking he was dreaming. Her arm brushed against him, and it became quite evident that not all of him was asleep.

"But, Jack, we just…" she sputtered, incredulous.

"Oh, that was ages ago." He waved her concerns away with two fingers, and then fell so still she assumed he had drifted back to sleep.

"I swear, Jack," she muttered, wrestling his breeches down over his hips. "Even when you're dead, you are going to lift the lid right off the coffin."

One hand groped blindly, a dreamy smile erupting when he found her arm. "I need you, Kitty. Please?"

Clad in nothing but his shirt, there was plenty of evidence to back up his statement. He wanted her—badly—and more badly, by the moment.

"Jack, you're too tired," she pointed out, climbing up beside him. "You're half asleep, already."

"Me body and me brains have given up the day." He pried his head off the mattress to peer down his abdomen then dropped it back. "Seems me cock isn't listening. Mind if his own, that one. Please, Kitty."

She bit her lip, to keep from laughing. He was so vulnerable, and pitiful. Still, his pleas found fertile ground; it was difficult to ignore his growing erection and the mustiness of male arousal.

"Don't you plan on making this a habit."

His lashes curved dark on his cheeks, an angelic grin was his only response to her warning.

She pushed up his shirttail, his cock coming to eager attention at her touch as she bent and took him. He drew a sharp breath and held it, his belly going taut at her hair brushing across it. His silky stiffness hardened against her lips, the hair of his thatch, and thighs coarse at her mouth. His brow narrowed in concentration, his hands coming to rest on her crown, as if in benediction. He swore softly through clenched teeth, his balls tightening in her cupped hand. Shuddering, he spilled himself in a warm rush, and then fell limp, his hands slipping away amid the sweet smell of culmination.

Kate pulled down the hem of his shirt down, and patted his leg, laughing quietly at his sainted smile. "Sleep well, sweet prince."

Sprawled as he was, he looked blessedly uncomfortable with his bare legs drooped over the foot of the berth. Compassion prevailing, Kate attempted to coax him further up on the mattress, but quickly found the effort to be futile. Grunting—and not a little cursing—she maneuvered his inert body aside enough to clear herself a corner, where she perched. Curled on her side, she heaved a complacent sigh; she always slept better with Jack next to her, even if he were no more than a dead weight.

Said dead weight roused shortly. Flailing like a drowning man, he gave a heave, and flopped behind her, worming until he was snuggly at her back. His fingers groped until they found hers. Satisfied, he gave a blissful sigh and slid back to sleep, exuding a renewed peacefulness.

It was good to be home.


	22. Chapter 22: Landed

**Chapter Twenty-two: Landed**

**Marigot** wasn't Port Royal, but it was a sprawling metropolis, compared to the other ports of the Caribbean that Kate had seen. Since her arrival to the West Indies—barely over two months ago—she had only seen a handful of towns as the _Black_ _Pearl_ laid at anchor, Jack categorically declaring each one "unsafe."

By some miracle—and standard known only to Jack—Marigot, on the island of Sint Maarten was given his seal of approval.

"Originally Dutch," Jack had explained from the aft rail, "but it's been French for the last half century, more or less… until they change their minds again."

"Aye, shared by the French—bloody Papists," Gibbs grumbled under his breath, "and the Dutch alike."

Kate recognized the look of Gibbs settling in for a story, as Gibbs propped his elbows on the rail. "They tried sharing the island for years. 'Course, any fool'd know that wouldn't work, so they finally decided it was time to divide it up, Dutch on the one and French on t'other. When it came to figgerin' where the line'd be, they chose to set two men t'walkin', from the shore inwards-like. Where they finally met would be where the dividing line t'would be."

"And?"

"The Frenchman carried a bottle of wine; the Dutchmen, bein' the way they are, took a jug of _jenever_." He paused to shudder. "Dutch gin, most vile contrivance ever to be made; like drinkin' pine pitch. The jug bein' heavier, and the drink more insidious…" He shrugged, as if the rest were an automatic conclusion.

"So what happened?" Kate finally asked, at once realizing she had just fallen victim to Gibbs' love of drama.

"Well," he began, squinting one eye. "The Dutch wound up with the west end, some of it, at any rate. The French own near two-thirds." He checked over his shoulder, looking for Jack's whereabouts before continuing. "Figures the Cap'n would be familiar with this place," Gibbs muttered from the corner of his mouth. "See that yellow place yonder, with the blue shutters?"

Kate squinted into the sun's glare on the water, at a bright yellow house merrily situated behind the rows of warehouses jamming the wharves, a three-storied affair, with blue-delft shutters, and planters tumbling with flowers at its multiple balconies. A rose rambler that clamored up one side and across the eaves, nearly obscuring the roof, was a testimonial to the longevity of the establishment.

"That's Marguerite's," Gibbs announced, with gusto. "The best whorehouse in these waters."

For the past two days, since their departure from Bienveillant, Jack had been sailing the _Pearl_ like a demon possessed, pushing both her crew and himself. At first, Kate had thought his urgency stemmed from a desire to put as much distance as possible between them and that cursed island. But, slowly, she had come to change her mind. Several ports had been passed without explanation. Jack clearly had a destination in mind—and now they were anchoring in the harbor neighboring the most renowned house of pleasure.

The coincidence was too much to be ignored.

Glancing over her shoulder, she watched Jack discussing anchorages with the foredeck crew. As soon as they had made sight of the island, he had visibly relaxed; he was where he wanted to be.

Now, Kate understood the urgency for the tally book to be complete; the moment the last item had been entered, Jack set the men scurrying to make ready. The plantation's plunder now sat in the hold, bundled, stacked and netted, ready to be hoisted up, and taken ashore, where it would be sold to the eager merchants. Pirated goods came at bargain prices, and in turn, could be sold to their customers at a premium, a good profit to be had by all.

"Cap'n's already issued what ready cash was to hand. Avoids a lot o' short tempers, d'ye see?" Gibbs said. It had been Kate's responsibility to take note of those shares issued, as well. "Aye, every man-jack has got a full purse, and balls to burst... beggin' yer pardon, sir," he added quickly, reddening.

**It **seemed that the anchors had barely settled, when the tender barges pulled alongside and the swag was unloaded. Gibbs and the rest of the crew, minus the anchor watch, followed closely behind in the longboats. More animated than he had been in days, Jack disappeared almost immediately into the sleeping quarters, and remained there for some time. As Kate paced the cabin, she could hear him humming, punctuated by an occasional chuckle, interspersed with the stunning sound of the basin filling, and then water splashing. He was washing!

Kate was at a loss, as to go about competing against someplace as well favored—and eagerly anticipated—as Marguerite's. Weeks ago, upon their arrival at Tortuga, she had been able to divert Jack's attention, but her success in that endeavor wasn't entirely clear. And that had been achievable by virtue of a day's notice. She had no such advantage now.

As Kate saw it, she had few weapons at hand. She was confident that guilt would have no effect; Jack rarely seemed burdened by that. Economy—saving money—never weighed heavily on him either; if he wanted it, one way or another, he would have it. And judging by the hold's pile of riches, money would be no object.

So, what was left? The possibility of injury, a fight broke out? Risk of the pox? Bad rum? Crowded streets? Long waits at Marguerite's—as if Jack would ever be left waiting? Her anger? Her tears?

Pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose in frustration, Kate snorted. No, none of those struck her as sufficient motivation to keep Jack away from those bright blue doors.

Still humming, Jack finally emerged, an unwavering smile affixed to his lips, a faint whiff of soap following him. It was instantly noticeable that he had taken great pains in his appearance: his coat had been shook out, his collar squared tidily at his neck, and the sash at his waist had been carefully arranged.

"What are you smiling at?" Desperation motivated Kate's anxious outburst. With Marguerite's looming over her shoulder, it seemed a pointless question, a cold ball weighting her stomach in anticipation of the answer.

As he pushed past with knuckles reddened, from being scrubbed, and she darted to intercept him. "Wouldn't you rather stay here?" The smell of soap was stronger now, his face brightly washed, droplets of moisture glistening in his mustache and lashes. "Is there anything I can do to keep you from going?"

Stopping in mid-stride, Jack smiled uncertainly, at least giving her the courtesy of pretending to consider before answering. "No. Why would I want to do a thing like that, when there's something else so much more better in there?" He gave his brows a conspiratorial waggle, lowering his voice. "I've been planning this for days."

He dodged around her, shaking his head, as if he couldn't fathom the reasons for her objections. Jack could be single-minded, but she didn't think he could be that oblique. As she saw it, she only had one bargaining chip. Desperate, she put all her hope into that one option.

Catching him, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, as ardently—and persuasively—as she could. Surprised, he still responded warmly, his mouth was soft and mobile, a gentle hand roaming downward, coming to rest at the small of her back.

"Stay here," she breathed, flicking his earlobe with her tongue.

Nibbling his neck, she slipped her hand into his shirt. The hard, smooth skin of his chest was damp and cool; he had washed there as well. Her hopes soared for a moment, at the feel of his indecision. But then he gathered his resolve, reluctantly pulling away.

"Temptress." A sly smile grew; the dark fan of his lashes veiled his eyes as he searched hers. "What's this about?"

_As if he didn't know!_

"Jack, please don't go." She knew his body as well as he knew hers, his nipple a hard nub under her palm.

He gave her a puzzled look, heavily tinged with indignation. "Why not?"

Suddenly weary of their perpetual cat-and-mouse game, it was both ludicrous and embarrassing that she had to explain. It was her fault, for expecting—hoping—that Jack might have changed.

She gulped, twisting her hands, unable to look him in the eye. "I just… wish…"

The word "wish" peaked his interest. "Yes?" he coached.

Balling her fists, she forced her eyes to meet his squarely. "I just wish you wouldn't go… there."

Jack's face fell honestly blank. "There? Where's _there_?"

She pointed a rigid arm in the general direction of shore, and the yellow house. "There! Marguerite's." Feeling like a shrewish harpy, she nearly choked on the word.

Jack's head followed her direction, several moments lapsing before he showed any recognition. "Ah, so 'tis. Still here, eh? Can't remember the last time I was there. Well… half a mo'." He frowned, his face clouding. "Perhaps I do remember. Bad moment, that. Oh, well! Let's not dwell on unpleasantries."

He clapped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation, but then stopped in mid-stride at the realization of what she had implied. Swiveling back on his heel, he gave her a narrow look. "Oh ye, of little faith," he scolded, with wounded pride. "You think I'm so rammish I can't pass up a nunnery?"

"Sometimes I don't know what to think."

Jack chuckled quietly, his oddments jingling as he slinked closer. "Well then, think on this: there is a tavern, not far, that serves some of the best chowder and fish pie in these parts—this whole corner of the Caribbean, for that matter—and also has rooms upstairs with very nice beds, and," he said, pointing a nearly pristine finger for emphasis. "And listen carefully, because this is the most salient point—it's clean." He purred the last word. "Believe me—and I offer this conjecture, with all honesty, and without fear of retribution—your every need _will_ be satisfied… all needs." His lashes batted with insufferable innocence. "Need I say more?"

Chastened, Kate's cheeks heated, awash with relief and embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Jack. It's just..."

"Yes. Yes. I know." He flapped her concerns away with a flutter of fingers, and an easy smile. "Trust and old habits do make strange bedfellows, don't they? Gather yourself up darling. I can't wait to squire you about town, and let every misfortunate dolt we pass die of envy."

**Marigot** was a bustling port, but still retained its Dutch flair, its orderly, brightly-painted homes of Upper Town staring down their noses at the Lower Town, dingy and coarsened by mariners and mercantile traffic at the docks.

As Jack tied off at the dinghy dock, at a far end of the main wharf, Kate felt a thrill as she scrambled up the ladder in spite of being almost instantly overwhelmed, by the crush of people and noise. She had lived in London for several years, but it had been months since she was exposed to anything more than open waters. Granted, there was nothing quiet about sailing, with a constant din of wind, wave, canvas and yelling. But that was nothing compared to the riotous throngs, the bellows of men—dock masters, supercargoes, slaves, and draymen—and beasts of burden—draft horses, oxen and mules—against a backdrop of goats, sheep, cattle, chickens complaining from their pens.

In the sultry, dust-choked heat of the late afternoon, the air was thick with the smell of the sweat of men and animals, mixed with dried hides, sheets of copper, barrels of salted fish, molasses, tobacco, coffee, indigo, tea, rum—the stuffs of civilization gathered in a miasmatic fog. Throwing a protective glare at anyone who became too close, Jack guided Kate handily along the clogged wharves, dodging handcarts, drays, rolling hogsheads, laden slaves, staggering drunks, and the hazards that laid underfoot, some identifiable, and some not.

As they made their way up from the docks, vendors jammed the spaces, hawking everything from fruit to meat pies, colorful birds flitting in twig cages, to charms and potions. Street whores, strolling their wares, flashed brief looks of recognition at Jack, their smiles immediately dissolving at the sight of Kate on his arm.

The _La Sirène Vierge_ Tavern's sign over the door was remarkable in that, despite a lack of legs, the artist had managed to depict the mystical creature of the deep, in a very compromising position. The tavern was close enough to the docks to draw the seafaring clientele, but far enough away to avoid the seedier elements. Typical of most taverns, inside was low ceilinged, the beams darkened by smoke and soot, with a serving counter near the door, and the taproom beyond. The pleasant surprise was the large windows that lined two sides, offering a view of the harbor.

Gibbs and several others from the _Pearl_ had arrived in advance. The swag dutifully sold, they were regaling the patrons of the tavern with the adventures of Captain Jack Sparrow, who swaggered into the room as if he owned it; in a way he did. He held court, the crowd receiving their prince of larceny, depredation, pilfering, and other misdeeds.

"They're speaking French," Kate hissed, under the shouts of the cheering crowd as Jack guided her into the room.

"Of course they are! It's a French island." He clucked his tongue, brandishing a scolding finger. "Really darling, you need to keep up with these things." He frowned as they dodged among the tables and benches. "Don't you speak French?"

"Barely, and it's very rusty. Brian taught me enough to get by, when we went there on a business trip for his uncle, but that was nearly ten years ago."

"No worries, luv." Amused, he patted her arm, winking on the sly. "Just stick with Ol' Jack; what you'll be needing to know won't require talking."

It was the first time Kate had seen Jack in his full, public persona, strolling into the room amid accolades and cheers befitting a conquering hero. Always the stage master, Jack kept her at his side, his body a barrier between she and the crowd, as if that simple effort kept her separate from this part of his world. They were funneled toward a seat in the middle of the room. By guile and guise, ostensibly to be better heard, Jack maneuvered them to a bench, where his back would be to the wall; she recognized the desire to keep his back protected.

With her hands folded on the table, Kate listened to one tale after another, as best she could decipher, at any rate; her French was much spottier than she thought. She had always been a good student, but much of Jack's vocabulary wasn't included in her lessons at Mrs. Peachwood's School, nor within the realms of what Brian had considered necessary for her manage afternoon socials, and dinner parties. She did, however, speak it well enough to appreciate Jack's proficiency, with only the slightest of accents, although he did take the same liberties with that language as he did with his native tongue, improvising words to meet his demands.

Jack was in his element, holding the room rapt, with the flair of thespian, giving them what they expected. It was a calculated performance. He drank, yet by some slight of hand, the level in his tankard never lowered, but was always ready for the next round. With each round, he grew a little more grandiose, demonstrably smacking his lips, and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, his demeanor incrementally degrading. He bought several round, endearing himself further to not only his followers, but the tavern's owner, too.

Kate sipped at her drink, and smiled, trying to appear enthralled, even though she only understood roughly a quarter of Jack's rapid-fire French. At one point, she cautiously sniffed his tankard, under his knowing smile. Ale.

"The night's young." He winked and flashed a heart-stoppingly seductive smile. "And I don't want to miss a minute."

Not much later, he abruptly rose. Amid the crowd's objections, he bowed graciously and bid adieu. Tossing a coin purse on the table, he relinquished the role of histrion to Gibbs. In a cloud of disappointment, he took Kate by the arm, and steered her to the back of the taproom, where a quiet table waited.

"A table with a view," he said, indicating the harbor. He doffed his hat and swept a courtly bow. "For m'lady."

Of course, Jack had been correct: the fish pie was incredible, flaky-crusted, deliciously oozing, the chowder rich with cream and butter, thick wedges of fresh bread and a pot of honey served on the side. Jack picked at his meal. In actuality, he ate more than usual; a testimonial to the quality of the food, but he left the largest part of it untouched.

"I'm not sure how you manage to hold body and soul together," Kate observed around a mouthful. "You don't eat enough to keep Cotton's bird alive."

He shrugged, idly drawing patterns in the crumbs on the table and arching a suggestive brow. "Me body has other sources of nourishment."

Under the table, she felt the suede toe of his boot make a sensuous trail up her calf. His eyes were the color of burnt molasses, and bright with mischief; they hid nothing, and he gave her their full benefit, sending a flush through her.

"Would you mind if I finished that?" she asked, groping to divert her thoughts.

Jack sat back, laughing. "Go ahead! If that is what you want, then you shall have it. All of it, if that's what you desire. Hell, I'll order the entire kitchen, if you want. Just don't let Kirkland see you eat like that; the poor man will be devastated."

"And, if I get fat?"

"Then I'll give you to Gibbs," he chuckled with an indifferent flip of his hand. "He's been looking for a fat widow for years."

He leaned an ear toward Gibbs, as his first mate launched into a tale that remotely resembled their latest encounters on Bienvillant, except there was a ship drug to the depths by a multi-armed behemoth, the djinn were creatures that sucked their victims' blood until the bodies were deflated sacks on the ground, and the Body of Da'ud was encased in an egg of solid gold.

Jack shook his head, quietly chuckling. "The man knows no bounds."

"Isn't that rather like the pot calling the kettle black?"

After attempting indignation, Jack smiled, one of those easy, honest ones reserved for those times of discovery. "At least I stay within in the world of credibility… at least a little more," he added defensively, at her skeptical look. "Most of them believed me," he pointed out, indicating the crowd encircling Gibbs.

Kate scanned the rapt—although with eyes drunkenly unfocused—faces. "By the look of it, they're doing a pretty good job of believing him, too."

Swiping a finger around the edge of his pie, Jack gave a half-shrug as he licked it off. "Sailing is hours and hours, days and days, and weeks and months of boredom. A good storyteller is worth his weight in rum, or gold. I've seen the cook flogged, just to keep the storyteller in fine feddle. If for no other reason than for ones' own sanity, one needs to be able to tell himself a good tale."

"Talking to yourself, to keep your sanity? That hardly sounds healthy."

"You've never seen the ravages of rampant boredom, have you?" He cocked an eye, waiting for the answer that he already knew was coming as he slathered a slice of bread with honey. "It can be the demise of an entire crew, a breakdown of discipline… even mutiny."

An odd sound in his voice made Kate look up. "Is that what happened… with Barbossa?" She was hesitant to utter the name, but Jack seemed to be bridging the subject.

He shrugged again, much more demonstrably, industriously licking the stickiness from his fingers. "Could be. I always fancied that the bastard knew he had to do something quick, or he'd lose his crew."

"His crew? I thought you were on the _Pearl_."

"Oh, aye, we were. Short-handed, we were, just as now. Hector was there in Tortuga, with a crew to hand…" A wave of his other hand indicated that he was leaving her to make the remaining conclusions.

"If he had a crew, what happened to his ship?"

A burst of derisive laughter erupted. "He'd been mutinied upon. If it hadn't been for a storm kicking up, he probably would have been hung. As it was, they cast him, and all his cohorts adrift. Bloody bastard was too tough to die," he said, with a sudden vehemence. "Some said he made a deal with Neptune. I'm inclined to believe he was just too disgusting for the sea to have him, and Jones didn't want him stinking up his decks."

"You really don't like him, do you?"

His eyes went black, before he dropped them down to the table. "More than words can ever express."

"Then why did you take him and his crew on?" Kate's head was reeling at the convoluted logic.

Batting his spoon in circles on the table with a finger, he mused, as if at a private joke. "Sailing is practicality, darling. You do what you must, when you must. As you say, desperate people do desperate things. It's a rare occasion to be on board, with seventy or eighty-odd men, and there's not at least two or three that you can't abide." He sat back, waving it away with a magician's hand. "Enough about ancient history. Tonight is about you."

Kate knew that she had gotten too close. Jack had just told her more than any person before, but he still had his limits. But then, didn't everyone?

Their meal finished, Kate wasn't surprised when a glimmer of recognition passed over the keep's face when Jack approached the counter, reaching for the key without a word. With a lamp held high, the keeper's wife trudged up the stairs then down the narrow hall to the end room. There was a clatter of keys, and the complaining squeak of moisture-hindered hinges. She stood aside, bidding Kate and Jack to enter, pausing to give the room a cursory inspection. With only the slightest of nods, she set the light on the table and turned to leave, a glimmer of a smile moving her stern mouth when Jack discretely pressed several coins in her hand.

It was a corner room, with windows overlooking the harbor, and the street, the early evening's breeze stirring the curtains. And yes! Curtains, worn and eaten by the sun, but curtains, nonetheless. A small vase of flowers sat near the lamp, and a spare rug spread at the side of the bed. Jack followed along with eager eyes as she took in each special touch.

The mattress was visibly lumpy, with a coverlet that had seen far better days, but it was still a bed, with a frame and ropes, instead of the hard boards of a ship's berth, and at least twice as wide as their bunk on the _Pearl_. She pulled back the coverlet and—miracles of miracles—sheets, time worn, but freshly aired and pressed. Bouncing like a schoolgirl, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"Thank you, Jack!"

"I thought you'd like it," he said, when she finally released him.

"Planning for days, hmm?" she chided.

He ducked his head, half-shy, half-pleased, a blush rising from his collar. "A man does what he must."

Hooking a chair by one foot, Jack drug it to the bedside, where he shed his weapons, and draped his coat over the back. Kate went to the window, the anchor lights of the ships twinkled on the harbor water, the moon swathing a silver-laden path. The tide had gone out, smell of salt marsh wafting on the breeze. Jack came up behind her, and slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her close as he nuzzled her neck. "You deserve at least this," he said in a throaty murmur, one hand tugging at her laces.

Turning in his arms, she kissed him, running her hands up under his heavy, silken mass of hair. She reached to undo her skirt, but he took her by the wrists, and guided them away.

"Allow me," he whispered, and kissed the inside of each wrist, then trailed up one arm to linger at the sensitive skin inside the curve of her elbow.

He undressed her with the methodical slowness of a man with a plan, a determination to leave no part unattended, his fullest attention given to the finest detail, moving with deliberation, as if following a map, and yet at the same time, committing that map to memory. She quaked, her pulse quickening with each advance, as he marked each point of reference with a kiss, tenderly touching his lips to her most tender places.

Wantonly tumbling from one side of the bed to the next, for the simple purpose of reveling in the space, they finished in a languid tangle of bare limbs. In spite of the vast expanse, they still slept curled around each other, snug as two spoons, her breast cradled in his upturned palm.

**For** most of Jack's life, the specter of waking to the same woman for the rest of his life was a staggering concept. Granted, his freedom was reason enough to never consider the bane of seamen—settling down. The mere thought of one woman, forever, was paralyzing. In no corner of his extensive imagination, could he remotely conceive the possibility of extracting joy, from lying with the same woman, night after night, after night, after night.

Now, he couldn't imagine anything else. The mere allusion of bedding another woman made his goods tighten—with fear.

True enough, he had lain awake many a night, staring at the vault of stars, or at the horizon from the helm, trying to fathom the traits of the perfect woman, both in appearance and in bed. All his life, he had heard laughing references to the effect that "it didn't matter what a woman looked like, as long as she was good in bed." He had been extremely dubious; a woman's looks had always been quite imperative.

Now, he understood. Kate could have been stone dead; sea-hag ugly and he would still never be able to rise to another woman.

With his head propped on one hand, he watched the candlelight play on the arch of her cheek and curve of her lip. To her, sleep was serious business; once there, she stayed, not to wake until morning. Admittedly, some nights, in the velvety dark, he couldn't help himself, and would have to wake her, to make love to her again.

Not that she had left him unsatisfied. Quite the contrary! Lying with her was an unspeakable experience, requiring every bit of energy, often to the point of exhaustion, the joy of his finish vastly out-measured by the joy of bringing hers. She was an addiction, a narcotic; the more he had only led him to want more. From a certain perspective, his future seemed grim.

That night could well be one of those nights; he had only just left her, and was already building a need. Mussed and foggy, skin flushed with the warmth of sleep, she would draw him to her, allowing him to do as he pleased. She smelled different then, softer, sweeter, more intensified. She tasted different, too. He knew it didn't make sense, but it didn't have to.

In a matter of minutes, she would have him jelly-limbed, a sly smile and teasing eyes daring him to have another go. There seemed to be no limit to her ability to reach her end. So far, the record was five; someday he would have the stamina to try for more.

He had considered collection her perspiration, where it beaded on her lip and brow; surely it would be an aphrodisiac. There was no doubt in his mind, that it would have that effect, more deeply than any potion purchased in a bizarre, or from conjure women. In the same moment, he negated the idea; he didn't want to share any part of her, with anyone.

She was his.

**Kate** jerked, wakened by the frightening sensation of being watched. Startled, she yelped at the dark figure hunched at the side of the bed. A familiar metallic rustle set her at ease; Jack leaned closer, his face moving from the shadows into the pinkish grey light of impending dawn.

"Shh." A chilly finger brushed her cheek. "S'all right, luv."

Blinking away the sleep, she saw him sitting on a stool, his bare back and shoulders ghostly pale in the dimness.

"I didn't mean to wake you." His graveled voice was roughened by the hour.

"What are you doing?" She ran a hand down his arm, and felt the roughness of gooseflesh. "You're freezing. Come to bed."

He lifted one shoulder and let it drop, a half-shrug dismissing her concerns. "I'll do." He sighed, his eyes bottomless and black. "I was watching you sleep."

She thought she heard an odd tone, but her fogged mind couldn't grasp it.

He pushed her hair back, and traced her features with a butterfly touch. "You glow when you sleep." His voice tightened, and he swallowed hard, putting a finger the smooth space between her brows. "You frown, like it's a great task, and yet…" His thumb touched her lips. "And yet, the corners here curl up, like you're smiling."

She cupped his cheek; he pulled her hand away, to grasp it between his, but not before she felt a cool wetness on the crest of his cheekbone.

"I need you, Kitty." Each word came rasped with effort.

"Then come to bed." She lifted the quilt, but he calmly resisted.

"No, not like that," he scoffed, choking it back. "I mean, yes, God! I want you all the time. But, it's more than just a matter of the flesh. I need you." His voice quaked, thickened by emotion. "When I'm with you, you take my breath away. And yet, when I'm away from you, I can't breathe; it's like all the air is gone."

Baffled, his mouth moved wordlessly as he bent his head, his oddments flashing in the growing light. "I know it doesn't make sense."

Kate put a finger to his chin and lifted his face. "What makes you think it's any different for me? Years ago, I stopped breathing, and never drew another breath until just a few weeks ago."

"Really?" Heartened by the thought, he smiled, a drowning man thrown a rope.

"Jack Sparrow," she scolded, with quiet firmness. "You are the most difficult, bull-headed man I have ever met. Do you ever listen to any thing anyone ever tells you?"

Rubbing his palms, he tipped his head, a trace of mirth in his voice. "Not usually. Can't say it's me strongest trait."

"Come to bed," she sighed, too sleep-muddled to castigate him any further. She groped in the dark until she found his hand, and gently coaxed him under the bedclothes next to her.

She bit back a gasp, his body was so startlingly cold against hers. The space between them quickly warmed and she opened herself to him, gently urging him to do what he needed, to find what he sought. His hair oddments clattered softly; the stars had surrendered their glory, but the moon still held its ground, spilling a path across his shoulders, eyes ardent, black pools. She wrapped her legs around his hips and held him as he ended with a choking sob. Blanketing himself over her, he clung, fearful if he were to let go, they would be adrift, forever lost to each other.

**The **flapping of the curtains woke her that morning. Kate lay quietly, blinking away the sleep. For a fleeting moment, she puzzled to remember where she was. Compared to the blaze of daylight, the room had looked radically different in the night's candlelight.

She rooted her head into the pillow, to once more luxuriate in the feel of linen sheets and a real bed. She wriggled her rear feeling for Jack, making an invitation, if he were there. It wasn't unusual for him to be already up and about, but she had hoped that, in the absence of the demands of his ship, he might linger.

Stretching luxuriously, she rolled over and froze.

Jack was gone. Not like most mornings, when he had risen, dressed and gone on his business; the exception now was that every sign of him was gone: coat, hat, pistol, baldric, everything. In its place, neatly stacked near the door, were her things. Stunned, with a sickening grip in her stomach, she rose. There wasn't much in the pile: all three of her sewing boxes, and a very small trunk. Opening it, she found her hairbrush, a bar of soap, a spare shift and a few hair ribbons. Not much, but everything she had.

She raced to the window, and snatched back the curtain. Deep and blue, the harbor was as busy as it had been, but the _Black Pearl_ was gone, the corner of the harbor that she had occupied empty. Her knees started to buckle and she staggered to the edge of the bed.

"He's gone." Meek as it was, the sound of her own voice surprising. She swallowed hard, choking down a lump. "He's gone."

Tears blurred her vision, and she angrily batted them away. Jamming the knuckles of one hand into her mouth, she struggled to hold back a surging flood of anger. A breeze from the window reminded her of being naked. She rose to fetch her shift, and saw the flutter of a small piece of paper, held in place by a leather pouch, clinking with the metallic of coins when she moved it. Her hand shook as she took the note.

Jack's florid handwriting was easy to recognize: **_My Lovely Kittie_**. Her hand trembled so hard she could barely manage to open the carefully folded paper.

**_To My Dearest Lady_**

**_Reading this, you'll know I've gone. I could not bear to wake you, to have to see your face as I left. True enough, I am a coward._**

**_Darling, I'll be back. Know that! There are things, which I must do, which I cannot, if I must worry for you._**

**_The room is paid, and you've money._**

**_Be well. I will be back. Two months, and I will be back._**

**_Always_**

**_J_**


	23. Chapter 23: Marooned

**Chapter Twenty-three: Marooned**

**If **there was a hell on earth, Kate considered herself to have found it. Day to day, she lived the sickening horror of the exact thing she had dreaded most. Shrouded in her greatest nightmare, she spent the days wading through a fog the consistency of calf's foot jelly, and her senses were not just dulled, but deadened—except for the pain that knifed her gut at every breath she dared draw.

Again and again, she stirred from her daze to find herself standing on the seawall, looking down into the churning, brilliant blue depths. If there had been the slightest promise that something down there existed that could make the hurt stop—Davy Jones, Calypso, Neptune, or Lir—she would have jumped without hesitation. Surely, some god of the deep had the power to make it all go away.

Ruefully chuckling, she scolded herself for her naiveté. She left—again—telling herself—again—that there were no guarantees, no promises or oaths, pledges or trusts that couldn't be broken. Man or god, it made no difference.

Staring became a way of life, until her eyes burned. At least, that was her excuse, when the tears began, daily, hourly. The harbor was her primary target, gazing either from her room, the taproom, the seawall or shore, waiting, watching—wondering, her self-loathing building with every moment, angry with herself for having fallen into the trap of thinking that Jack would act differently with her, derisively jeering for thinking she might, by some miracle, have been separate from the hundreds before her. It was difficult to argue with history. She had become the tragic figure she had always feared: another woman, left waiting. The ceiling became her focus point at night, grasping for answers, and wondering about Jack.

"I'll be back…"

She snorted. How many women had heard those words? How many women had woken to that same note, the same purse of coins perched on the table? On how many other shores stood forgotten women, waiting, wondering, and watching; a trail of women left, burned out sparks in the tail of the comet known as Jack Sparrow.

Her head was a cacophony of voices, all screaming, pointing, demanding answers, but she had none. Pitching from anger, to regret, to hopelessness, to longing, with intervals of recriminations, she spent hours—days—reviewing, trying to recall every moment, searching for some hint, what she might have said, or done, or some indication of what Jack had been planning.

The echoing answer was always the same: Nothing.

Ultimately, in the dark, loneliness of night, she always came back to the same conclusion: it was just Jack, being Jack.

It was a small, bitter consolation.

Jack had most certainly planned his clandestine departure. "Been planning this for days," were his exact words. She hated him for the deception.

Gibbs had certainly known too, that betrayal hurting the most. In a vague fog of reality, she had actually allowed herself to fall into the thinking that they were friends. However, if a choice was to be made, it was no guess where Gibbs' allegiances would lie. It was impossible to know if anyone else had been privy to the deception.

"_What difference did it make, anyway?"_ she thought glumly. _"You're here, and they're gone. The rest is just details."_

Her fingers brushed her wrist; the bit of lace—the one that Jack had given her, the one she kept wrapped over her brand—was gone. He had taken the time to take it, but why? So he could reclaim the original memory that scrap had held, of whoever had given it to him? Or, was it his attempt to carry her with him? What, or who, would he think of, every time he looked at the ragged fragment?

Her rope necklace was still at her throat; he hadn't taken that. But had that been a matter of reluctance, to put a knife to her throat in order to cut it away, or was he maintaining a connection, his way of marking her as his? Or, in his haste to leave, had he just forgot?

Loss, in and of itself, was too familiar. Regrettably, she knew what that meant, what the next weeks and months would bring, and what would be required to survive them. She had survived before, but there was little comfort in that knowledge, it was only a paralyzing reminder, the reopening of an old wound. Experience wasn't always the best teacher. Knowing what was to come didn't make it any easier.

Most times, she was caught on the horns of indecision. Should she try to forget him, and erase his vestige, or should she desperately cling to every shred of his memory, to keep him from fading away?

Which was more pitiable?

Which was less agonizing?

She still clung to the small bundle of paper Jack had shoved into her hand, barely more than week before. Too many times to count, she pulled it from her pocket and undid it, rolling the shot nested inside between her fingers.

_Never._

She had thought the single word said everything. His pledge had seemed earnest, the fact that it was in writing being of significance to him. Never, until what? He tired of her? Until he found someone else more fascinating, or more exciting in bed? Until he was beginning to feel restrained and trapped?

Her other talisman was the now-tattered note he had left, the last thing he had touched, her last connection, his final promise her mantra.

"I will be back…"

Finally, out of sheer exhaustion, sleep did come. Most nights Jack came to her, with smoldering molasses eyes that touched her depths, he watched. They reached for each other, but neither able to connect, the inches of separation an ocean. She burned with the need to be held once again, and begged to feel his solid warmth. His hand would hover without touching, tracing her features. And then, he would be gone, leaving her to awaken panting, and full of unmet arousal.

_Damn him._

If he were going to be gone, then why wouldn't he just let her go? Was she, hanging on to him? Or was it he, reaching out to her?

**The** daily logistics of life were no easier.

Kate fell into a simple routine; the cycle of the sun telling her when to eat, slept when exhaustion would allow for nothing else, and in between stared, either at the sea or the ceiling.

She grew accustomed to the blank looks when she plied her halting French. She also grew accustomed to the speculative looks from the tavern's patrons. She felt pale and transparent, a ghost-like remnant. If they were staring, then it meant she was still alive. She wasn't sure if that was the good news or the bad.

She openly groaned at the thought of trying to order another meal. Most times, what she requested wasn't what was received. It hardly mattered, stew or pie, fish or fowl, food had no taste, eating was just a way of occupying a little more of her time, because time was all she had.

The tavern's owner, Nicholas Gicquel, was a spare man, but softer around the edges than his solid wife. Like her, he was a man of few words, with eyes that tended to narrow with instant caution, whenever someone spoke, as if he assumed every person were attempting to short shrift him. When out from under his wife's baleful eye, he proved to be congenial, bordering on friendly, but that quickly dissolved the moment he suspected she was within earshot. Dinner at their table must have been a reeling, social affair.

The keep's wife, Mathilde, was a tall, raw-boned woman, with a severe countenance, and a way of appearing to be judging everyone and everything she encountered. Her big-jointed hands were weathered and grooved by a lifetime of hard work. She carried herself erect, but each step was laden with the weight of weariness. In public, she was demure with her husband, but there was little question as to who was in charge. A sour woman, she viewed Kate through thinly guarded hostility and suspicion, with a way of pausing, measuring before she would respond. Wisps of dark brown hair, grizzled with gray, stuck out from under her mop cap. Kate couldn't explain it, but she sensed that behind the façade there was a softer side to the woman, albeit well protected.

Kate suspected that the Gicquel's spoke more English than they cared to let on, in the spirit of rendering her just that little more uncomfortable and less welcomed.

"Papists, the lot o' 'em," Gibbs had rumbled. And he was correct, the sight of crucifixes and rosaries, the crossing of themselves and murmuring prayers to a variety of saints, slingshot her back to the Highlands.

As always, on an international level, the tensions between England and France were heating up, and the proprietors of _La Sirène Vierge_ Tavern were determined to assert their nationalism. If France was unable to dominate England on a world level, it would enjoy a haven of international superiority, in the _La Sirène Vierge_ Tavern.

Kate kept her wrist hidden, as best could be managed, but it was easier said than done. Between the brand, her bronzed skin, and the rope necklace, everyone knew she was a pirate's woman; she had arrived on the arm of one of the most notorious, now used and discarded.

Some of the customers looked at her brand as an invitation; others saw her wedding ring, and backed away. It occurred to her that perhaps they thought that she was married to a pirate, making them reluctant to risk suffering the wrath of an avenging pirate-husband. Or, dropped off and done with, would they see her as anyone's property?

She fell back into her same habits, as when she had lived in London, and sewed the coins Jack had left into the hem of her skirt, shift and stays. On a practical level, she harbored little confidence that Jack would come back. Accepting that meant sooner or later—more likely the former—she was going to have to find a way to make a living. The town was fair-sized, but its opportunities weren't endless. Luckily—and probably by design—her sewing boxes had been left for her; it was a place to start.

Jack had paid the tavern a month in advance, but she knew with whatever work she might be able to find, she still wouldn't be able to afford the room, and she could see that finding a place to live was going to have to be very high on her list of matters to address. It would have to be a place near the harbor; on an emotional level, she wasn't willing to abandon all hopes of the _Black Pearl_ returning. Luckily, the waterfronts were customarily the seedier, hence cheaper rooms.

She scavenged about the refuse pits and smithy, until she found a couple thin bits of broken table knife or something similar; an empty tin was a treasure, as well. Each night, she barricaded the door, jamming the iron lags into the doorframe. The tin, partially filled with pebbles, was set slightly away from the corner, a perfect alarm, if kicked by an intruder. Her dagger was slipped under her pillow; she slept with one hand always next to it.

She sat and watched the steady flow of men through the bright, blue-painted doors, across from the tavern. Marguerite's did a remarkable business, the harbor a steady turnover of ships. Judging from the dress of many who frequented her doorstep, a goodly portion of her clientele was from the island. The brothel appeared to be everything Gibbs had purported it to be. Why would she have ever doubted his word?

All things considered, Marigot wasn't objectionable. The town was large enough to offer most of the necessities of life, hopefully including meaningful work. More importantly, it was French-held, and therefore, beyond the long reach of His Majesty's warrants for her arrest.

A voice told her that she should be grateful; Jack had done everything he could to see her well cared for.

She didn't feel it.

**Monsieur** Simon Doncker. No one could be in Marigot for long, and not notice the name emblazoned on the warehouses near the docks, and several of the shops and businesses. The middle son of a prestigious Dutch family of sugar and cotton planters, according to Alize, the skullerymaid, he had chosen commerce to make his fortunes, and fortunes are exactly what he had made.

Nearing middle age, he wasn't a bad looking sort; it was easy to see how many women might find him appealing. His dress exemplified prosperity, in every aspect, from the hat, stiff with newness, brilliantly cockaded with colored ribbons in hues that reflected the surrounding waters, the impeccable, and appropriately powered wig, richly, embroidered silk waistcoat, and silver buttons and buckles. He had the bearing of a man who had earned his fortune, and now had every intention of enjoying the fruits of his labors. Kate wondered what means he must have used to amass such fortunes. An insight might have been the ruthless line about his mouth, and had sharp blue eyes that missed nothing.

People moved aside when he walked through the tavern, an easy feat, since he wore cologne that was astoundingly sweet, and announced his arrival well in advance. The Gicquels made special efforts upon his appearance; the fact that Mathilde smiled was indicator of the magnitude of their fawning. In front of the window with the best view of the harbor, his table was always kept ready. Every regular patron knew better than to sit there; newcomers, including Kate, had it explained to them, in very succinct terms.

Doncker spent his afternoons holding court, one business contact after another parading through while he ate, his meal served on the best dinner service available. Kate looked down at her split wooden trencher and battered fork; her position on the _La Sirène Vierge_ Tavern social ladder was quite evident. His wine glass never went dry, and there would be a glass of sherry sitting at his fingertips the moment he took his last bite.

It was a couple of days after Jack had left, that the hunger pangs became unbearable, and Kate finally dragged herself to the taproom. Picking at a bowl of fish soup gone cold, Doncker's cologne caught her attention first, starkly unsettling amid the ale, sweat, sawdust, smoke, tar and salt smells of the room. Eating was enough of an ordeal, and she could feel the weight of Doncker's stare through every bite. She rose and left, resolving from then on, that she would sit as far across the room as possible. Unfortunately, she would learn that the tavern wasn't large enough, to avoid his attentions.

The passing of days were something of a blur, one melding at oblique angles into the next. As best as Kate could fathom, it was a little over a week later, that she saw Mathilde from the corner of her eye, bending an attentive ear toward Doncker. Nodding, she straightened and came across the room with a determination, the distasteful nature of her mission clearly written on her face.

"Monsieur Doncker has requested that you join him." Mathilde's hands fisted under her bosom were further testimonial to her disapproval. The emphasis on "requested" wasn't easily ignored; little choice was being offered.

Kate glanced up to see Doncker's expectant look. She tipped her head to Mathilde, and smiled as politely as she could. "Please give Monsieur my best regards—but no thank you."

Mathilde glared imperiously down the ample line of her nose. "This is _not_ a matter of choice. A wise person—especially one of _your_ position—would be very flattered and would accept the offer most _graciously_."

Kate stiffened at Mathilde's icy tone, and her implications; no one needed to remind her of her _position_. "It would appear, then, that I am neither wise, nor gracious," Kate pointed out evenly. "No. Thank. You."

"Monsieur is a very prestigious man," she hissed, rigid-jawed. "And we make every attempt to extend him every hospitality."

Kate met Mathilde's glare with one of her own. "Then tell him, as _hospitably_ as you can, that I am not on the menu." She looked to see Doncker's face cloud; he could read her face well enough to know her answer.

"Monsieur is a married man!" Mathilde was thoroughly scandalized—or was attempting to give that impression. "He has been the perfect gentleman, and has made no such…"

"If he were such a perfect gentleman," Kate hissed back, "He would be over here himself, rather than sending the house matron to do his bidding. As for anything he has, or has not said or done, it's only because he hasn't gotten around to it. I am not naïve, Mademoiselle Gicquel. I assure you, I can perceive a man's intentions. No. Thank. You."

For a final punctuation to her point, Kate rose and left as Mathilde reluctantly—and with the proper amount of indignation and apologetic deference—delivered Kate's reply.

The next day, as she toyed with a piece of soused fish on her wooden plate, Kate inwardly groaned when she a flowery cologne cloyed around her nose, and looked up to see Doncker coming in her direction. He removed his hat, swept a very courtly bow, and broke into a flow of French that was beyond her expertise.

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand." She had become very polished with that particular line, although in spite of the language barrier, there was little doubt as to what he was saying. Had Brian been there to see the appraising look he wore, Doncker wouldn't have lived to his next meal.

Of course, a merchant would need to be multi-language, in order to conduct business. Undaunted, he slipped into a moderately smooth English. "My name is Simon Doncker. You, my lovely lady, may call me Simon. May I call you Catherine? May I sit?"

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped onto the bench across from her.

Kate arched a displeasured brow. "Only my father called me that, and he has been gone for a very long time."

It might as well have been water on a duck; her words rolled off him without so much as a blink. "I had heard that there was a most enchanting lady visiting." He might have been Dutch by blood, but he possessed the same French flair for flummery. "They should be held as criminals, for so understating your beauty. Someone so lovely should never be left alone."

Keeping her eyes on her food, Kate murmured something appropriate, but was very careful not to encourage him.

He glanced openly at her ring. Then his eyes widened at the sight of her brand as she set down her spoon. His excitement was barely contained, as he licked his lips. "I customarily come here for the fish pie, but I can see how there could be other… enticements." He rolled the word in his mouth, savoring it as if it were something else.

"I'm afraid you've been led to some very erroneous conclusions."

He laughed confidently, unperturbed. "I've been making inquiries."

"Then I'm sure you've learned everything there is to know, making further conversation quite unnecessary."

"How can you refuse a man, if you haven't heard his question?" He paused to wave a hand to a couple of his associates, beckoning them to sit; he would be there directly. Turning his attention back to Kate, he leaned on the table, one hand trailing across to suggestively brush a finger on her arm. "I could make it very worth your while. And," he persisted, "perhaps, if we find we are particularly compatible, I could make it _very_ worth your while."

Kate jerked back, vigorously rubbing her arm to erase the crawling feel from his touch. _Until you find someone better_, she thought bitterly. For the first time she noticed his hands, unnaturally feminine, without the least hint of having ever done a day's physical labor, other than with a quill. Even his palms lacked the soft calluses worn by holding reins.

"There is nothing that you could possibly offer that could sway me in the slightest," she said coldly.

His confidence wavered only slightly, his mouth taking a cruel curl. "That is a very hasty assumption. You could come to regret that," he added, with a warning note that gave her a sudden chill.

"I have learned that regrets aren't the worst thing that one can suffer. Good day, sir."

"Perhaps you would be willing to more carefully consider." His voice dropped an octave and turned menacing, his blue eyes going to steel.

Kate met his look with one of her own. "Perhaps. Not."

He paused, a bit taken aback that she would deign to refuse him, then jerked a rigid bow and went to his table, glowering at every opportunity. Not afraid to let her know the level of his displeasure, he continued to shoot daggered looks across the room, responding half-heartedly to his colleagues.

Mathilde appeared at her elbow, with much the same glower. "Can't very well have you out here, disrupting what few customers we have."

Kate gave the jammed taproom a skeptical look.

"From now on, you'll take your meals in the kitchen. It would be greatly appreciated if you were to avoid this room, _if at all possible_."

Her nails dug into her palms as she nodded, and forced a smile. "Of course, as you wish, Madame Gicquel."

Mathilde's eye narrowed. "Don't be flippant with me, _Madame_." She pointedly shot a look at Kate's wedding ring. "You may be a paid guest, but there are limits to what anyone could be expected to endure."

Mathilde stepped away from the table, and stopped to look expectantly back; apparently she expected Kate to follow that very moment.

As she followed Mathilde's ramrod back, Kate wondered if the offer truly was as painful as it appeared, but saw no sense in biting the proverbial hand. She was grudgingly relegated to a small corner of the expansive worktable, and a stool was unceremoniously drug from a corner.

From that day on, Kate took all her meals in the kitchen. She missed the smell of the sea that came in on the sailors, and their raucous chatter, but the kitchen was cozy—and safe.

The Mathilde did most of the cooking. During those times, Kate would sit quietly and concentrate on her meal, enduring the severe looks when Kate left food unfinished; eating was still an ordeal. Mathilde was thoroughly unsympathetic, and obviously took it as a personal affront, muttering words like wasteful and ungrateful.

A round-faced, jovial whirlwind named Jouex was the kitchen help. When the Madame Gicquel was present, she was quiet, but as soon as she left, Jouex set to chattering like a magpie, winking conspiratorially as she gave Kate extra tidbits, taking Kate's lack of appetite as a challenge. For reasons Kate couldn't quite fathom, Jouex was eager to learn English, and the kitchen became an impromptu classroom, Kate polishing her French as she schooled Jouex on her English.

**Many** evenings, Kate took to roaming the wharves. She knew it was dangerous. Proper women didn't walk the streets alone at night; proper women didn't go anywhere alone. But she was no proper woman—and it could be a long wait for an escort. There were only a few uncomfortable moments, over-zealous advances, emboldened by drink, a brief display of her knife being all that was necessary to resolve the situation.

She felt a connection to the sailors that thronged there. The smell of sea and salt, and the creak of the ships as they rocked on their moorings were the sounds of home, as brief as that home might have been. Happiness seemed to be bait that was dangled in front of her, only to be jerked away whenever she reached.

Carefully, she would inquire if anyone had seen or heard of the _Black Pearl_, or her captain, ignoring their assumptions that she was a jilted lover, or a woman in trouble. The seaman's faces lit at the mention of the famed ship, and her illustrious captain, but no one had recent word of either. The harbormaster quickly came to know her, and would discretely shake his head. _No, not toady. _

One night, again disappointed, but refreshed by the night air, Kate made her way back to the tavern, and trudged up the stairs, the sense of failure hanging on her shoulders, recriminating herself for thinking a casual question was all it would take to find Jack. If he wanted finding, he would find her long before she would ever be able to find him.

She didn't think anything unusual when she heard the scrape of leather on the wooden boards of the hallway. Marigot was a teeming port, the tavern with a steady flow of guests at all hours. She didn't take notice of the rustle of clothing, or reek of sweat and ale.

Kate was alarmed, when the sound came up directly behind her. She spun, but it was too late. There were too many hands, covering her mouth, wrenching her arm behind her back, seizing her by the waist and lifting her from the floor, all in a cloud of hot breath reeking of ale and turnips.

As she was wrestled down the hall, Kate tried to scream, but the hand dug into the flesh of her jaw, her arm jerked to an agonizing angle. To her surprise, she was taken past the stairs, toward the end of the hall. The arms at her middle were iron bands as she twisted and struggled. The hand blocked her mouth; there was no hope of biting. One arm broke free, and she flailed, groping for any purchase of tender skin to scratch, an eye to gouge, or a hair to tear at—anything, but to no avail.

Both she and her captors were panting, by the time they shoved her through the door, and set her down. The moment her foot touched the floor, she launched a blind kick, and swung a punch at the other. There was the wet smack of her fist hitting sweaty flesh, and a surprised grunt. The bones in her wrist grind together as it was yanked higher between her shoulder blades, the hand over her mouth choking off her pained yelp.

"Enough."

The voice was calm, but with sufficient authority to cause both of her captors to release her. Kate staggered from the unexpected freedom, righting herself to find Doncker standing in the half-light, with a slight smile.

His eyes never left her as he waved away the two thugs. "Be gone; you've earned your wage."

The two slipped past her, cringing at the murderous glare she threw them, hastily pulling the door shut.

The fly had just been delivered to the spider.


	24. Chapter 24: Battlegrounds

**Chapter Twenty: four: Battlegrounds**

**Doncker** locked the door, and casually tossed the key on the table. They landed with a clatter next to a coin purse, a bottle and two glasses, one half-full, nearby.

"A real fireball, aren't you?" There was a small note of admiration in his voice, lighting his eyes at the same time.

"I've left enough men wishing they hadn't tried me on." Kate rubbed her wrists, trying to ease the burn of her twisted skin.

"And that pirate, did you struggle against him? Did you scream?"

His eyes brightened, deriving a disquieting pleasure those suggestions. Kate could see where answering wouldn't be the best path.

"You gave yourself to him, didn't you?" He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue lingering at the corner of his mouth. "I can pay far better than he ever did."

Defiant, Kate set her jaw. What he thought of her and her moral fiber came as no surprise. She had anticipated, and witnessed, what people thought of a pirate's woman. There was no sense in arguing the title; it's what she was. She had made the choice, and would live with it.

Some would call her a whore—some already had—for having sold herself in exchange for food and shelter. From a certain perspective, she couldn't argue, but that didn't mean she was obliged to play the whore to anyone else.

Irritated by her refusal to answer, he gestured contemptuously at her left hand, and the wedding ring there. "You didn't actually think that meant anything, do you? I suppose when he gave you that, he promised you the world, and eternal faithfulness—and that you were the only one in his life. Am I right?"

"I notice you wear a ring also. I'm assuming you made the same pledges to your wife."

He drew back momentarily at her remark, his face clouding. "A tart with a tongue. I can give you far more, and require far less, I assure you. Serving every one of those vile creatures on that ship had to have been tiresome. It's a credit to your stamina."

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, and testing her jaw, Kate distracted herself to keep from retorting. He was trying to get a rise from her; he seemed to feed on agitation—the more she argued or denied, the more excited he would become. She didn't care for any of the insinuations—well, outright accusations. A few of his conjectures hit a little too close to heart for her, but she had no intention of allowing him insight.

She skeptically eyed Doncker, wondering if he really thought this was the way to charm a woman. He wasn't saying anything any different than what other's had been thinking, but hearing it made it just that much more objectionable. And yet, there was precious little that she could deny.

_Damn you, Jack!_

Exuding confidence, Doncker tossed off his coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He wore no wig, his sandy hair pulled back into a neat blue bow. "I'm not accustomed to being told no."

"That's unfortunate." Indignation shook Kate's voice; she hoped he didn't assume it to be from fear. "Because I'm very accustomed to saying it."

The sweetness of his cologne had given way to the acrid of sweat, mingling with brandy and sharpness of arousal. The adjoining rooms were remarkably quiet. Extra arrangements had been made for this little rendezvous. It was clear that Doncker had done this before, and didn't anticipate being refused. She seemed to be surrounded by men with ulterior plans. One of the wealthiest men in town, he was accustomed to the benefits and privileges that came with that station.

Kate glanced over the room, searching for options. There were few. The room was larger than hers, but more sparsely furnished: a chair, a stool, a small table… and a bed. An oil lamp burned on the table with the bottle and glasses. The light from a couple of wall sconces was the only other illumination. The window offered no escape; it was a two-story drop to the ground. From what she could see, he had brought no weapons. Wise man, she thought darkly. The weight of her own knife swung against her thigh, but it was deep in her pocket, not the best option, at the moment.

Doncker moved forward, and Kate fell back, their evasive waltz continuing for several moments, identical magnet poles avoiding each other.

"Come now, my darling. Don't be shy." His patience was beginning to wear. "You've already given yourself to that pirate; allow me to plow that furrow."

Clamping her lips between her teeth, Kate held her silence. Mouthing several Dutch and French oaths, he stopped at the table and gulped down the remainder of brandy in one glass.

"Don't go putting on airs." He narrowed one eye, glowering. "Do you think you're going to do better? You're lucky I'd have you; you're lucky anyone would have you. You're street trash and you know it. You've lifted your skirts for him…"

"Shut the hell up," she hissed, regretting it the moment she said it.

"Oh!" One brow arched, mockingly skeptical. "Feisty little tramp, aren't you? Going to bite the hand that is going to keep you fed? Perhaps a drink will sweeten your disposition."

Stalling for time, Kate silently nodded. In the small confines, she wished the window were open, not for escape, but a bit of air; the sharp, animal mustiness of his arousal was stronger. Alert for deception, she accepted the glass, stepping away. As she sipped, she wondered if she could culture the pitching nausea she was feeling into being physically ill all over him. She thoughtfully rolled the glass between her hands. Regretfully, it was very good brandy; she could have easily quaffed the entire glassful, but she already had other plans. As it was, on a stomach that had been relatively empty for days, the liquor was already forming a hot, fortifying ball.

Doncker was quick when he made his move. Kate was caught by surprise, but gave her brandy a well-aimed toss in his eyes when he lunged. Hanging onto the glass as he jerked her toward him, she deliberately smashed it on the edge of the table. He gave her arm a vicious twist, and she yelped, her knees buckling to escape the torque. His fingers dug into her neck, his mouth groping for hers, she swung the glass at his head.

He saw the blow coming, and ducked, the glass's shattered edges gouging into his forearm. Growling with a combination of pain and anger, he backhanded her, and sent her reeling. The collision with the wall knocked the wind out of her, and the glass skittered across the floor. He threw his weight against her, pinning her to the wall. Brutally twisting her hair, he cut off her cry with his mouth, his teeth raking her lips, tongue thrusting deep. Writhing, she bit down, and heard the resounding crunch of flesh. He grunted and jerked away, his oaths muffled by a hand at his blooding mouth. It was only a momentary distraction, but enough for Kate to slam the flat of her hand on his ear.

Kate broke away as he howled, but he had the awareness to stick his foot out and trip her, bringing her down hard on her knees, the rough boards scraping her hands. Emitting a predatory laugh, he hooked an arm around her waist and lifted her away.

His breath came in ragged gasps in her ear, as he wrestled to drag her toward the bed, dipping one hand down her bodice, to dig his fingers into her breasts. Reviled and fighting every defensive urge, Kate fell forward over his arm, as if succumbing to his demands. Encouraged, he fondled her unmercifully, his nails gouging her nipple. Gritting her teeth, Kate waited for the first moment both of her feet touched the floor, and then arched her body back, whipping the back of her head into his face.

There was a sickening crunch, a sharp pain, and flashing lights behind her eyes; dimly she thought she might have cracked her skull. Doncker bellowed, clutching his bleeding face as he staggered back onto the bed.

On legs almost too shaky to support her, Kate dove for the key. It skittered away from her frantic fingers, but she finally seized it, fumbling at the lock. Pulling it free, her skirts barely cleared before she yanked the door shut, another few agonizing moments in the dimness of the hallway being required to relocate the lock. Rewarded with the satisfying click of the tumblers falling into place, she raced down the hall, the garbled moans of Doncker fading behind her. Skidding to a halt at a small window, she lifted the sill enough to pitch the key, sending it sailing into the darkness.

Once in the refuge of her room, it took every effort to quietly close the door. Leaning against it, she groped for her own key, as alarmed voices and footsteps pounded up the stairs. Dropping the key, she finally locked it, jamming the pieces of flat metal into the doorframe for added protection.

Panting, Kate backed away. Willing her heartbeat to slow from its deafening pounding, she strained to hear the commotion in the hall: fists beating on Doncker's door, his garbled pleas for help, and then the splintering of a door as it was broken open. She came up against the chair, and sat down heavily, her gaze fixed on her door, listening and waiting in the dark.

Sweat trickled into one eye. With a trembling hand, she batted it away, at the same time seeing the blackish glisten of blood on her arm. At first, she thought it to be her own, and had been too distracted with fighting to feel it. On closer inspection, she found no injury, which meant the blood was Doncker's. She gingerly touched the broken skin at her crown, her fingers coming away sticky, uncertain if it were Doncker's or her own blood. Cringing with disgust, she went to the washstand, her still shaking hands causing the water slop out of the basin as she poured. Frantic to be rid of any reminder of him, she sluiced her face then furiously scrubbed her arm and the crest of her head, hissing when she rubbed the open cut.

The hallway was still astir, Gicquel and Mathilde's voices ringing clearly over the others, shouting orders as they tended Doncker. Kate felt the chill of realizing that her victory would be short-lived. Doncker was an important man; her troubles could have only just begun. First impressions would be that he couldn't very well make a public scene. Filing charges against her would require admitting to having been privately in a room with her. He was a married man, and a social position to protect.

She wasn't so naïve as to think money couldn't be very persuasive, as far as the law was concerned. All evidence pointed to the fact that he had such escapades before, and did it without fear of entanglement, or reprisal. Judging by the crunch of bone and the instant flood of blood, he had at least broken his nose, perhaps some broken teeth, evidence that couldn't be ignored. By the morrow, his face was going to be a bruised and swollen sight.

She might have saved herself from being ravished, but she had also guaranteed he couldn't pretend that nothing had happened.

Kate pried up from the chair and woodenly walked to the door, where she set her small can of pebbles, and then laid on the bed, the jolts of fear finally waning enough to sleep.

**Kate** woke sore from lying so rigid, having slept in a tight ball all night, and stiffly prying her fingers from the knife she had been gripping. Her face was sore and puffy, the inside of her mouth raw in places from Doncker. Each time her tongue touched a sore spot, the scene from the night before returned, and she shuddered, choking back a gag.

Every muscle ached, complaining vehemently at every move. Her palms burned; inspecting them closer she found several thick slivers buried deep in the torn skin. A needle would be required to dig them out, but her sewing kit was across the room—a few feet, but still much too far to contemplate traveling at that moment.

The brilliance of the sun, the angle of its path across the floor, and the buzz of activity from the street, all indicated that it was late morning. The slam of doors jerked her awake again, sometime later. She lay, half-listening, half-dozing, the sun had marching across the wooden planks.

Groaning, she rose slowly, grimacing at the effort, and crept stiff-legged to the door. She bent to pick up the can of pebbles, and was met with a headache that nearly buckled her knees. Hobbling back, she collapsed on the bed, burying her head in a dark corner.

Slowly the realization came that she wasn't going to be able to spend the entire day in her room; hunger, thirst and the need for fresh air driving her to finally rise. In no mood to encounter Doncker or the Gicquel's, Kate avoided the taproom, and slipped out the servant's entrance.

The sun stabbed her eyes when she stepped out into the day, making her head hurt worse, but she pressed on. From the few coins in her pocket, she bought an orange, a banana, a bread roll, stuffed with minced _barbacoa_ onions and peppers, and a cup of cider from vendors on the wharves. She walked the docks until her legs and back ached, the throb in her head worsening with the heat of the day, and then assumed her daily position on the seawall, staring. Eventually, she followed a trail that paralleled shore, to a favorite stretch of isolated beach, where a fallen tree provided a seat, which gave her a full view of the harbor traffic.

Battered, tired, and a pulsing head, her spirits quickly degenerated.

Was this what she had to look forward to, for the next… however long she was to be there?

She already knew the answer: five years in London had taught her what being alone meant. The brief respite of comparative safety, two months on the _Melody_, and then nearly as long on the _Black Pearl_, had only been cruel teasers. Happiness seemed an unreasonable expectation, bait dangled in front of her, to be pursued, and then snatched away. Contentment, peace, home, security, affection, all unrealistic dreams in a bottle that floated away, perhaps existing in excess some where else in the world, through an oversight or miscalculation, and so Providence sought to get its house in order by robbing her of all of them.

Living with a pirate bore its hazards; the brand on her arm was proof enough. But, at least she had been able to sleep the night without fear of attack, and knew here her next meal was coming from.

Like a wide-eyed fool, against every internal, rational voice, she had allowed herself to fall in love. How could she not? With his dazzling smile, devil-filled eyes, and well-honed charms, she had been putty in Jack's hands.

In a blind rage, she threw a rock, and then a shell, and then another rock. In a fury, she seized anything that came into her reach and hurled it, grunting with the effort.

"God you're pitiful! Katherine Maureen Harper Mackenzie, snap out of it!" she screamed, vibrating with the effort.

She doubled over, the lancing pain in her gut worse than any blade could have inflicted. Crumpling to her knees, she sobbed, tears of rage dissolving into tears of anguish and misery. Pounding the sand, it spurted up at each blow, until every muscle burned, and she could no longer lift her arms. Bracing on all fours, her tears left a trail of dark dimples in the sand. Too shattered to support her own weight, she collapsed on her side, and curled her knees to her chest.

**It **was very late when Kate finally trudged back to her room. Her throat was raw, her face hot and puffy from crying, and a dull headache still thudded in her temples. Plucking the sweat-dampened shift from her body, she felt grimy, and could think of nothing more than washing.

Picking up the ewer, she groaned, instantly knowing that wish wasn't to be: there was no water. It was odd; Alize, the mouse-like chambermaid, was so meticulously earnest in seeing to Kate's comforts, with a tenacity that suggested that she had been bribed, supplemented with an ample dose of threat. The list of those who could have been responsible for that was very short. He may have deserted her, but Jack had taken great pains in his arrangements.

Shaking away the thought, she grabbed the ewer and went downstairs to the well.

The counter was unattended, the taproom quiet. Two diehard fixtures hunched over their perpetual chess match in the corner, another table of four across the room playing whist. She slipped past them, unnoticed.

The kitchen was dark, the hearth smoored for the night. Luckily, Kate was familiar enough to easily navigate the room. Outside, the night air behind the tavern smelled of wet ashes, stale ale, old urine and a privy, but felt crisp and clean, compared to the oppressive stuffiness inside.

Madame Gicquel harbored the same suspicions as so many others, regarding the hazards of night air, and kept the tavern, and its rooms tightly sealed. Kate had spent far too many nights sleeping under the stars, to not realize the fallacy of that superstition, and defiantly kept the windows in her room opened.

At the side of the well, she paused to draw in several deep breaths, to clear her lungs of the stale air, and tipped her head back feel the breeze at her neck. As the water poured from the bucket into the ewer, she thought she heard another sound, and was startled to look up and find Gicquel standing in the shadows near the woodshed.

She nodded a greeting, instantly feeling vulnerable and awkward. She scolded herself for being so instantly defensive and jumpy, until he took a step forward, and she realized that there had been wisdom in those reactions.

"What do you want?"

She tried to glean the coldness from her voice. There was no sense in being coy; his intentions were glaringly obvious as he moved to put himself between her and the door, his eyes assessing her in insolent hunger.

"You were quite rude to Monsieur Doncker last night."

It took Kate a moment to follow that unexpected turn of the conversation. "He had it coming." She squared her shoulders. "I was only defending myself."

"Were you now?" Gicquel smirked, coming closer. "He claims that you accosted him, and is most anxious to press charges."

"Then let him," she scoffed, hoping her false bravado wasn't too transparent. "He attacked me; any court would agree to that." She cringed at the thought of going before any court, even if it were only a French jurisdiction.

Gicquel shrugged equivocally. "Possibly. It could be a matter of your word against his… and witnesses. One can never account for the possibility of witnesses."

Ah, so now she knew. "What do you want?" It was a stupid question; his leer was answer enough. She was stalling for time, measuring her options, weighing her chances.

Her prospects were poor. He had planned this well: the hour was very late, and the alley isolated. The empty ewer hadn't been a coincidence, which meant he knew her habits; he had been watching. The thought made her skin crawl. Checking the walls of her room for peep holes would take top priority.

"I need a reason, for why I should speak on your behalf, perhaps even talking Monsieur Doncker out of pressing charges… if you are willing..."

He steadily advanced, Kate falling back at his each step, stumbling slightly over a rock. She managed to keep her footing, but strained to remember its location, then risked a glance, to see what other possible weapons might be near. The moon had risen, but the buildings cast deep shadows, making it difficult to see. Near the shed laid a few sticks; not much help there, other than the remote possibility of stabbing him in the eye, or throat. Firewood was stacked near the kitchen door, but Gicquel blocked access to that. The water bucket sat on the well's ledge, but was secured by a rope; greatly rendering it's range of effectiveness.

Kate turned slightly, blocking his view as she fished in her pocket for her knife. Elusive in the folds of her skirt, her confidence stiffened at the feel of the hilt's cold steel in her palm. Gicquel licked his lips, eyeing the neck of her bodice. With her quickening breath, she felt her breasts heaving, and made a conscious effort to slow down, but knew she was failing. Cautiously, she tried to draw out the knife slowly. He said something that was too slurred, and beyond her level of French.

Gicquel must have guessed what she was up to; he didn't wait for an answer, lunging for her arm. Not realizing that she still gripped the ewer, Kate swung the heavy crockery. His shoulder took the brunt of the blow, shards of the pottery glancing off his shoulder, the black glisten of blood trickling down his neck.

Her knife now free, Kate viciously swiped at the man. As a tavern keeper, he had no doubt broken up many a fight, and easily deflected her attack, seizing her arm in mid-air, and giving it a wicked twist. Her fingers went instantly numb, the knife skittering off into the dirt.

Jerking her against him, Gicquel sought to get an arm around her neck. It was only luck that she caught his wrist in her teeth, and bit down. There was the soft crunch of skin, and instant tang of blood in her mouth. Bellowing, he jerked, but managed to hook his other arm around her waist. The vise-like grip around her ribs bent her in half; instead of fighting it, she slumped further, going limp, as if too faint to struggle further. She gritted her teeth at the feel of his cock eagerly prodding at the back of her skirt, while a hand groped inside her bodice, digging and squeezing her breasts.

_Brute. No wonder his wife had such a sour look. _

Then her moment came, a fleeting second when she was able to firmly plant both feet. She arched her back, hurtling her head toward his face. Gicquel sensed her intention, jerking his head aside, the blow missing its target, catching him in the jaw with a resounding crack that echoed between the buildings. His grip loosened as he fell away.

Both spotted the knife on the ground, Gicquel skidding across the dirt on his belly, to reach it knife first. The ache and frustration of the last several days boiled to the surface, erupting in a fury, as Kate gave his exposed side a solid kick. Her foot drove deep into the soft flesh, forcing his breath out in an explosion. Rolling, he stabbed upward, but only snagged the hem of her skirt.

Kate backed away as Gicquel struggled to rise, clutching the knife in one hand and his side with the other, and her foot scuffing the rock she had stumbled upon earlier. Seeing her intention, Gicquel leaped as she stooped to scoop it up, only able to partially straighten before he was on her. Balling the rock in her fist, she swung at his already ravaged face.

Gicquel staggered back several steps, his feet braced wide as he fought to remain upright. Kate's first urge was to kick him in the balls, but she knew better; her years of childhood battles with her brothers had taught her it was highly overrated, since it was so difficult to fully execute. In spite of that, however, she feigned a kick in that direction. Predictably, he jerked both hand to defend his crotch. With a slight shift of weight, she brought her foot down full force, into the side of his knee.

There was an odd sound, between a pop and a crack, and then he went down, clutching his leg. His mouth moved, but could only manage strangled noises. As he writhed on the ground, the light caught her knife blade, Gicquel finally found his breath, and bellowed, as she picked it up.

Alarmed shouts and pounding footsteps came through the kitchen. Kate turned to leave, but then succumbed to temptation, drew back a foot, and gave him another shot in the side. She raced to duck around the building's corner, just before a small gang burst out into the yard.

Bracing her hands on her knees, gasping for breath, Kate kept one ear cocked toward the commotion in the alley. Gicquel's rescuers seemed more worried about tending him than running down his assailant.

She peeked around the building toward the front step and the street. The few people that walked the street paid little heed to the stir behind the building. Luckily, the street was near enough to the docks, that shouting, or other disturbances sparked little interest. Smoothing back her hair, and tugging at her bodice, Kate composed herself as best she could, and went around onto the porch, as if she were just returning from an evening walk.

She slipped upstairs, fumbling first with the lock, and then the metal pieces she used to secure the door. Sagged against the door, she closed her eyes, and waited for the shaking to stop.

It didn't.

Weary, she laid on the bed, afraid to undress. She jumped violently when a moth collided with the windowpane, and again at a loud clatter from somewhere on the docks. She stared at the ceiling, long into the hours of the night, wondering what would be next.

She couldn't leave Sint Maartin; she didn't have enough money, and no means of earning any quickly. If Jack were to come back—which was highly improbable, but _if_ he did—he would come there, looking for her. There was no choice regarding leaving the tavern. The challenge would be to find somewhere close, so that when—and _if_—the _Black Pearl_ arrived she could know. That time seemed to be growing further and further away with each day.

Eventually, she did sleep, curled on her side, with her knife clutched in her fist under her pillow.

That night, the dreams returned, of groping hands, and faceless voices, of being contained and restrained, terror relived, hell revisited. Since she had been with Jack, safe and secure—well, for a while, at any rate—the nightmares had faded. Now, the feel of unwanted hands tearing at her body had triggered long-buried fears.

With the nightmares back, sleep became a new torment, one more paralyzing decision: should she risk it, on the chance that Jack would come, or should she deny it, in order to avoid the night's terrors?

In a certain sense, it was all a nightmare.

It was like losing Jack all over again. Her entire life, every piece of happiness, had been taken from her. It seemed a bitter injustice, as if some power couldn't bear the thought of her finding even the briefest moment of pleasure.

_It wasn't fair._

She laughed bitterly. Jack would have scoffed at that. Brian, too. Both men had been eloquently clear on that point: there was no fairness.

Too bad, it would have been nice to hope.

**Distant** voices, arguing somewhere downstairs, were Kate's first alert that morning had arrived… late morning by all appearances, as she cracked one eye open. She jerked when a door slammed hard enough to vibrate through the building.

"I don't care! I want her out of here!" bellowed a voice that could only be Mathilde, followed by an indecipherable plea from Nicholas.

The heavy footsteps approaching in the hallway roused Kate further, but didn't prepare her for the thunderous hammering at her door.

"Open up!" There was no mistaking Mathilde's irate voice.

Kate lurched up, her head throbbing just that much worse. "Coming." She groaned, and struggling to rise.

The banging grew more urgent. "Now! This instant!"

"I'm coming! Wretched woman," Kate muttered in English.

The latch had barely clicked before the door burst open and Mathilde boiled into the room. "You have been the ruination of this establishment."

An iron grip seized Kate by the arm, and bodily drug out of her room and down the hall amid a rushing tirade of French that Kate couldn't begin to understand. If there had been any doubt, the curl of Mathilde's lip and burning glare would have erased them. She picked out several vulgarities made familiar by Jack and Brian. In the midst of the chaos, she found it amusing that those two diametrically opposed men would resort to the same oaths. Maybe they weren't as opposite as she had originally supposed.

Kate stumbled down the steps behind the matron, focusing on not falling than the stream of epithets that flowed past. She considered resisting, but Mathilde was a head taller, and easily as strong, perhaps stronger, than a man. Kate was vaguely aware of sympathetic faces as she went through the lobby, most notably Jouex and Alize at the kitchen door, and the battered one of Nicholas, leaning heavily on a crutch behind the counter.

"The room was paid for a month!" Kate finally objected. "You can't just…"

"Damages!" hissed Mathilde. "For all the lost business you have caused us."

Stopping at the tavern's front doors, Mathilde gave a grunt, and hurtled Kate into the glare of the street, the sun less battering than the weight of the curious or accusing stares of the passersby. She stood in the middle of the street, dodging a dray wagon that rolled past with the same regard as if she had been a local cur.

Alize crept around the building, clutching Kate's sewing box to her chest. Risking her job, if she were to be caught by either of the Gicquel's, she used the dust of a passing dray as cover to scurry out and hand it to Kate. Her eyes widening in fear at the sight of someone approaching from behind Kate, she dropped the box before Kate could catch it. As she bent to pick up it up, she felt a hand at her waist and whirled around.

"_Calme vous-même, mon cher_," she said in a musical voice, patting Kate's arm. "My name is Marguerite."

"_**Fifteen**__ men on a dead man's chest,_

_Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum._

_Drink and the devil have done for the rest_

_Yo-ho-ho and a …"_

The querulous toll of bells drew Gibbs' attention, his lips lingering at the rim of the rum bottle that now went forgotten in his hand.

Crows soared past, bat-like against the night sky. Strange. Crows never fly at night, but this was a strange place. Neither day nor night would lay claim to it, leaving it in a perpetual murk.

Gibbs narrowed one eye, peering contemptuously toward the fog-skirted prison perched on the distant cliffs, its torches lighting the thin bridge. Evil crept in the swirls, walking the water, threatening to curl its chilling fingers around anyone, or anything that dared to come within its grasp.

The Cap'n's orders had been to hang off the reef and wait, but that had been to close for Gibbs' comfort, and the crew had become restless, muttering darkly. So he'd let the _Pearl_ slip out, drifting further off the ominous hump of shore.

The bells tolled again; there was no blocking that sound across the glassed water, Even the wind was afraid to come near. Calling the sharks, they were, and the cold-eyed devils knew it, gathering like a pack of slobbering wolves their fins slicing the black water. The corbies knew it, too, sweeping in writhing clouds, a gathering of scavengers, ready to pick the bones, erasing from earth what was never to be seen again.

He'd witnessed the Cap'n go off on many a half-cocked scheme, but this one took the cake, breaking _into_ a prison. It skirted closer to daft than he had ever seen, and all on the word of a whey-faced boy.

Gibbs dolefully shook his head, and took another drink, in hopes of washing the bad taste of the place from his mouth… and his memory.

No one lived to come out of that hell-hole. Even from the _Pearl's_ anchorage, they could hear the screams, mingling with the mournful cries of the gulls, and croak of crows, into a chorus of death that boded well for no man.

He spit on the middle finger of his right hand and slapped it into the palm of his left, hitting it twice with his right hand after.

Bad luck, everywhere.

Crazy was to break in; insane was to think he'd escape. It was a tall order for Jack to expect to escape a place that one had had ever escaped. No one ever lived to tell what lurked inside. Some said it was Hades, Satan just never got around to putting the name on the door. The gates o' hell would be easier to slip, but if anyone could do it, his money was on Jack. The man had a guardian angel old before its time.

The bells tolled again, a cold hollow sound that threatened to choke the life from anyone who was to hear it.

He took another drink. Not even rum could melt the icy fingers in his gut.

Jack had been blessedly mum on what he sought, what pushed him to this recent madness. Something drove him, like Lucifer himself was on his tail. He'd seen Jack possessed by a lunatic notion when he had gone after the _Pearl_. That demonic single-mindedness didn't hold a candle to the way he was behaving of recent. Much more of this, and Jack would have another mutiny on his hands. The man seemed to collect them like whores at a dock when the fleet came in.

He was a wonder.

The screech of a monkey rode on the breeze from the topmasts. The blighter had appeared in the midst of a high wind, as they scudded before the hurricane, knocking the Cap'n's hat clean off and then landing with a thud at his feet.

"A word, Gibbs."

He shot a look fit to kill as one of the crew skulked past. Thirty-odd years at sea told him this wasn't good. He'd sailed the Seven Seas; it didn't matter if it were the Big Dipper or the Southern Cross overhead in the night sky, the face of a disgruntled crew was the same, regardless of where they were on the chart. The only difference would be what language the complaints would come in.

This lot had been picked up in Tripoli, after the crossing. Bad seeds the lot o' them. It's not easy to ship with a crowd that you trust no further than you can throw 'em. He had closed his eyes, groaning, when the Cap'n had come back with 'em in tow. Had there been any choice in the matter, he would have done everything in his power to not bring them aboard.

But, there had been no choice.

The Cap'n had been in a burn to be under way, and hadn't been of a mind to be trifled with.

Being left hanging on the hook for three days, while the Cap'n went gallavanting off on God knew what kind of madness wasn't helping matters any. A restless lot to begin with, time was the last thing they needed on their hands.

He'd seen conspiracy take seed before, and take root. The decision had already been made to throw in with them. Least wise, that way he might have some hope in steering them, maybe one against the other.

Even the men he knew, who had been shipping on the _Pearl_ for some time now, were getting restless. Leaving Mr. Kate behind didn't set well with any of them. He'd heard mutterings of "bad luck" and evil doings. Some even alluded to Calypso wrecking her revenge, for having angered a woman. Leaving Mr. Kate behind, like they did, didn't sit well with him, either, but he had little say in the matter. The Cap'n had been prickly enough—often foul-tempered and black—at the least allusion to her.

It hadn't been missed by anyone, that the Cap'n had been hitting the bottle extra hard, since they made the Rock of Gibraltar, growing more sullen each day. Gibbs wasn't ready to chalk it all off to pining for Mr. Kate. Something else was eating at the Cap'n, something he wasn't ready to discuss. That, in and of itself, wasn't of concern; Jack rarely let on what lurked in that mind.

It was something else that Gibbs couldn't quite put his finger on… not yet, at any rate. But it was something powerful, to be sure.

"Aye?" Best play along. Best way to know what's on their minds is from the inside. Granted, a quartermaster's charge was to deliver the crew's complaints to the captain, but there was only one place where his allegiances laid.


	25. Chapter 25: A Minor Change in Plans

**Chapter Twenty-five: A Minor Change in Plans**

**The** lamps swung overhead, marking time to the rhythmic lurch as the _Black Pearl_ took each wave, her timbers creaking and groaning, the rudder chains grinding overhead with each shift at the helm. The wind whistled through every crevice of the ship, the shrouds vibrating under their strain. It was the symphony of sailing, and it was music to Jack's ears, turning the hourglass at his elbow as automatically as most would breathe.

He had been pushing hard both the crew and the _Pearl_, but the _Pearl_ wasn't complaining. She was doing what she did best, what she lived for: spreading her wings across the open seas, talking to him in their own private language. The foresails were beginning to lift; he could feel her planking shudder. She had the heart to throw her shoulder into every wave, but was asking for a change in course, the chance to sail her best, rather than taking the wind in her face.

As with any ship, she had her limits to sail into the wind. The _Pearl_ could point higher than any other ship he had ever witnessed, a vast advantage in either being chased, or the chasing. But limits were limits, and he was at her beckon to find her a new course.

Trans-Atlantic navigation could be dicey business. True, "head west, and you're bound to hit something" could be one theory, but he preferred something a bit more exact, than the Carolina Banks be their first sight of land, or disembark to find Portuguese as the mother tongue. He needed to know where he was, and when he would be getting where he currently wasn't. Somewhere, a clock was ticking, and it wasn't with reference to the time of day.

Intent on his task, Jack jerked violently when the metal plate was slammed on the table.

"Didn't hear you come in." Rolling an irritable eye, he knew who it was without looking.

Mr. Kirkland glared down his nose. "Perhaps not, _sir_," he said stiffly.

It had become their routine: Kirkland making his displeasure eloquently apparent, and Jack deflecting the same, the cook either boring him with stony glares, or refusing to look at him at all. How could two blue eyes do so much damage?

Jack pulled an eye from his work toward the plate; it didn't matter what was on it, the verbal jousting was always the same. "I don't recall asking for anything."

"Perhaps not, _sir_." Usually as benign and soft-spoken as the solicitor he once was, it would appear that Kirkland had his limits as well. "The crew thought perhaps you were going hungry, since they haven't seen you eat in days." He leveled a gimlet eye at the rum bottle weighting a corner of the chart. "One does hear rumblings, _sir_."

"The crew, eh?" He didn't give a bloody damn what the crew thought. Put three of them in a room together and there would always be enough complaints to fill a page.

"You tell that blessed pack of ingrates," Jack hissed, stabbing a finger squarely at him, "that under _no_ circumstances, are they so much as even think of breathing her name. One hint, one mere allusion, and I'll hock and heave the bastard before he draws a second breath. Savvy?"

He balled a fist, feeling himself slip near an edge he had been battling to avoid as if it were perdition itself. Drawing a deep breath, he continued through a set jaw. "We cannot let a single soul know about her, or where she is, or that she even exists…ever! If anyone found out, it could mean her life. Are you, or any of your wretched cohorts, willing to risk that, Mr. Kirkland?"

Jack took a bit of satisfaction at seeing Kirkland wince. Maybe the man finally understood the significance of why he had forbid the mention of K… _her_ name, not only on the ship, but anywhere. It was a striking turn of events, to have the most duteous person on the ship become the conduit for a grumbling crew. Striking, but not surprising. Kirkland had become K… _her_ guardian angel, his entire existence hinging on her every need. Heaven help anyone who actually waited for her to finally say something, if there was something she needed… let alone wanted.

Propping his elbows on the table, Jack rubbed his face in his hands, suddenly feeling tired. "I know, Kirkland. I know."

"Do you, _sir_?"

Jack paused to peek between his fingers at the cold stare then sat back, curling his hands closed. "Believe me, I know." Each word was uttered with singular emphasis. "It was for her own good."

"Really, sir?" The frozen face finally moved an eyebrow. "I hadn't noticed her peril." The steely stare moved to the bottle again.

"If we weren't so short-handed, Kirkland, I would have left you back there, as her blessed watch dog."

"At least she would have had _someone_."

The cook's jabs were finding their marks; Jack felt each one hit home. There was nothing he could do about it; what's done was done.

_And there will be hell to pay._ One more price to be paid for desperate decisions made so many years ago.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"There hadn't been anything in the first place." Jack ground through his teeth. "Good night, _Mister_ Kirkland."

"Good night, _Captain_."

Kirkland punctuated his displeasure by heavy-footing it down the gangway, the pounding finally fading into the galley. Closing his eyes, and drumming his fingers on the table, Jack counted well past thirty as he sought patience. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head and bent back to work. His attention faded, however, and he soon found himself in a blank stare watching the hourglass' last grains of sand sift away.

The loneliness in his cabin was staggering. He had prepared himself for it to be difficult, but nothing could have readied him for this. Nights were the worst, but days were fast gaining grounds on that score. Like a shark, he moved endlessly, walking the decks, prowling, pacing... anything to avoid the screaming silence in his cabin. He couldn't bring himself to push past the curtain, couldn't bear the thought of looking at the cold, empty bunk that waited on the other side. He couldn't sleep... ever... hardly... but under no circumstances could he sleep in there. Exhaustion had its rewards; it could dull the senses enough to allow for fits and snatches of peace, disguised as sleep.

The Turkish prison had been a necessity, a nightmare he had willingly entered. Walking dead, scuttling half-human creatures, skulking and slithering in the shadowed corners, like crabs to their holes. He still couldn't get the stink of the place out of his head. The rum helped... barely. The miasma still hung in his lungs, rising in malicious whiffs with each breath; the stench clinging in is hair to haunt every turn of the head. He'd seen prisons before—plenty—and thought he had seen every hell-hole the world had to offer, but that place took the prize.

When Hell was full, the Devil sent you there.

"Abandon all faith, ye who enter here." Dante didn't know the half of it.

Hell's waiting room is what it was, fetid with the smells of rotting humanity, hopelessness being the most pungent and pervasive odor of all. Providence, or whatever controlling hand it was that decided such things, had been kind again; what he sought had come with the last dying breaths.

He suspected impending death had been the old man's motivation, elsewise the wretched skeleton might not have been so forthcoming, drawing on the last shirt fragment, in his own blood, the key wrought by his ancestor.

He had been lucky to escape; the death of the governor's favorite servant had been fortuitous. At least he rated a coffin, unlike the other poor wretches, who—having thankfully died—were tossed to the sharks like last night's slops. Bloody beasts could smell a meal; could smell fear as they bumped the coffin. Easier prospects of a meal elsewhere had been his only salvation.

_One thing at a time, mate. Focus._

Blinking, he flipped the glass, and forced himself back to his task.

The sky had been seen in days, so dead reckoning was his only navigational tool. He walked the dividers in deft increments on the chart, marking the projected progress, trying to recalculate the recalculations—again—at the same time making every effort to ignore the compass at his elbow. The thing was wretchedly unhelpful, holding a bearing perhaps a day, perhaps a minute… perhaps not at all. All in all, it was very disturbing; certainly not what he had bargained for.

Unable to resist, he glanced at the black box, and was heartened to see it still held a heading. He glumly tapped the glass, and the needle spun off, as if his very touch had knocked the bloody thing off course. Tia Dalma had probably bewitched the ruddy thing, somehow or another, probably in hopes of coercing him back to that sweltering shack, so she could sink her claws into him... literally… once again.

He snorted. _Highly unlikely._

From a certain point of view, maybe the thing was working. He knew what he wanted, and had it—except he wasn't able to have it, until all this unfortunate business was handled.

_How had thirteen years passed so quickly? Never seemed to have passed that quickly before._

Thirteen years had seemed a lifetime, at the time. But here it was, roughly... maybe a bit longer. Well, all right, quite a bit over. Things had happened, matters had come up, issues to be overcome.

Jones could be reasoned with; he'd managed it before, at any rate, no reason to believe he couldn't prevail again. Find the key, find the chest, and then own Jones. Then his life would be his. He waved a hand, batting away the niggling voice that kept saying, "Yes, but..." like it was an annoying gnat. Jones was a human—well, almost. Anyway, every human... belay that... every _being_ wanted something. It's what made humans... human, different from the animals.

Exasperated, he threw down the dividers, and seized the rum bottle, only to meet with further disappointment. Upending it, he watched a single, pitiable drop fall out.

"Why is the rum always gone?" The rum seemed to be gone a lot these days, too. It did dull the senses, ease the burdens, rendering life almost livable.

He inadvertently had spoken out loud, and yet the sound of his voice—any voice—was a relief to the staggering pall that had befallen his cabin these last days… weeks... months.

_How the bloody hell had all that gotten past?_

'_Cuz it's not the rum that you're missing._

_Belay that!_

_Belay that, belay that! You know it. Can't run from it._

_And can't change it, either._

He felt the coarse roll of cloth inside his shirt, brushing his skin with every movement, a constant reminder of his goal—and the rewards that would follow: freedom, unfettered and unending, to sail the seas, and be with his two sacred ladies, one dark and stalwart, the other delicate and soft... so very, very... very soft.

_None o' that, mate. Issues at hand, eh?_

Shaking off his thoughts, he rose from the table. He needed rum... badly.

**"_I didn't say port. I said land. Any land!"_**

**The** sun had finally risen, but it was little comfort. Now, Jack could see what was coming—or not—but wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

"Sail hard and sail fast." That, plus a bearing, had been his only directives. In the meantime, he skulked in his cabin, with the thought that perhaps Jones' beast might not be able to track him down… at least not quite so readily. Yet, his cabin was a prison of its own category. It was a bitter choice: be eaten by a lurking leviathan Bootstrap had warned him of outside, or stay in his cabin, and be eaten on the inside, by the ghosts that gnawed his gut.

He kept his fist clutched against the dull itch of the black spot on his palm as he paced, unable to close his eyes or allow them to linger in any one place, before the visions of Bootstrap's ravaged face appeared. Each time the visage showed, he renewed his resolve that, by no means of circumstance or imagination, would he allow that to be his fate. There were still choices, unsavory, but choices, nonetheless.

The bloody beast had changed everything. "Find the key; own Jones" was no longer relevant. Survive. Live. The rest… well, the rest… would just have to be relinquished to later. Otherwise, he'd have to face everything he had planned was for naught, everything he had dared hope for—for naught. The scant dreams he had allowed, gone.

He resolutely packed K…_her_ away into an internal vault. He couldn't think of her, not now. Maybe, not ever. But "ever" was a very long time, and if he had learned anything through his years, either by plan or accident, things most definitely changed.

Patience hadn't always been his strongest asset. With any amount of luck, he would have nothing but time to develop said luck. Still, if they didn't make better speed, he wasn't going to have time for anything.

He inched out on deck, barely to the quarterdeck's shadow. The passing crew slid him cautious looks, but what did he care? It wasn't their arses on the line.

Gibbs spotted him over the rail, and dutifully came down at the beckoning crook of Jack's finger.

"Mr. Gibbs! Any reason, in your infinite wisdom, why we aren't making better headway?"

Surprised, Gibbs jerked, looking quickly to the sails, thinking he might have overlooked something, his mouth moving as he groped for words. "She's already pinched as far as we might to the wind, Cap'n, The yards are a-chock now; we can't come in any further."

"Excuses," Jack announced with an irritated swipe of his hand. "I've seen you find wind in a water cask. I have faith in your ability to compensate for something so trivial as unfriendly wind."

Gibbs' mouth sagged, as he looked in disbelief between his captain and the sails. Finally, he gulped. "Well," he began tentatively, "if we were t' fall off a might more, she'll run full and by; we could pick up a knot, mebbe two."

"And head across open water?" Jack cast a leery eye toward the surrounding blue expanse, and shuddered. "Not bloody likely! More sail!" he announced, and spun back into his cabin.

"The sails are liftin' now, sir!" Gibbs pleaded, hot on Jack's heels. "More sail is the last thing we need."

"Then trim! Ease off on the foresails and stiffen the mizzen. Hell, we'll lessen the mast rake, if we must, but full ahead, Mister Gibbs!"

"Cap'n!"

Jack pivoted back, glaring. "Do I want to hear this, Mr. Gibbs?"

Gibbs hesitated, shying; and then squared his shoulders. "Cap'n, you've been rammin' around in here like a bee in a bottle."

"Is there a purpose to this sudden wave of concern?" Jack winced at his own retort, and softened. "I'm fine." He winced again at the echo of a voice he figured to never hear again.

"Cap'n… Jack." Gibbs moved closed, lowering his voice. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I had one mother, Gibbs. I don't need another." He sighed, shaking his head as he strained to recall. "I'll sleep when there's nothing else to do. Is Marty still on the lookout?"

Gibbs rolled his eyes, seeking patience. "Aye, sir, same as the other four times ye've asked today."

"Good." Jack opted to ignore his first mate's testiness. After all, he was captain; he could ask a question a dozen times, if he so wished. "He's our sharpest eyes."

Jack drew up to the table to study the charts. "We should make land within the next few hours." He threw a loathing look over his shoulder out the galley windows. "Before dark, hopefully."

"And then what?" It wasn't an argumentative question, just Gibbs eager to know what to prepare his crew for next.

"We land," Jack said levelly. "Literally." He never had thought, in all his days, that his most fervent wish would be land. Was this Jones' perverse doing, driving him from the thing he loved most—both of them?

Gibbs moved closer to study the penciled rhumb lines. "What island is that?"

"Dunno." It was a difficult admission, but seemed a minor point. "They're not me charts; can't read the bloody thing. Pelican. Pelig… something or other."

"_Peligro_?" Gibbs asked, squinting at the smudged writing. "Ain't that Spanish for danger?"

"That's what it means, but I have no idea, if that's what it says."

"What's there?"

"Dunno. It's a matter of what is _not_ there."

Gibbs frowned at that, but clearly thought it wiser not to pursue it.

"The _Pearl's_ feeling sluggish, don't you think, Master Gibbs?"

Gibbs rolled his eyes, struggling to follow Jack's sudden change of topic. "Difficult to say, what with the wind on her face."

Jack closed his eyes, and tipped his head back to feel his ship. "Yep! Most definitely heavy in the belly, wallowing like the sea anchor's been set." He rocked on his feet, folding his hands behind his back. "I'm thinking it's time she's careened."

"Careened!" Gibbs almost choked. "We been racin' like the devil hisself is chasin' us, just so's we can careen her?"

"It's been… a couple of months, has it not?"

"Soon as ye got 'er back from Barbossa." Gibbs' frown deepened; clearly puzzled by the fact that Jack wouldn't recall a matter so significant to the well being of his ship. "And another time, since."

"Then she's due!"

Gibbs leaned closer, giving the chart a sharper examination. "Why not go in here, at Widow's Hump Island? We know there be a good bottom; 'tis a more likely spot."

"Because that's another full day away, and across deep water!" Jack exploded before he could stop himself. He stabbed a finger at the map. "Here, is where we will be making land, and here is where we'll be careening."

"Cap'n," Gibbs began, shaking his head lugubriously. "The men are gonna…."

"Land ho!"

The call from the masthead interrupted them. The subject was closed.


	26. Chapter 26: Groping Through the Fog

**Chapter Twenty-six: Groping through the Fog**

**Jack** drummed his fingers on the arm of the throne—ridiculous bit of nonsense, but one does what one must—trying to maintain the same placid face he had worn for… however long it had been.

The beat of the drums throbbed in his bones. His blood pulsed in unfamiliar ways, while other parts pumped in ways that were very familiar. Existing on the edge of the wilds, these natives lived by their base instincts. On the surface, he saw nothing wrong with that. As the young women cavorted around the fire in his honor, the flames painting their writhing bodies in orange and red, Jack closed on eye, and tried to visualize Kate wearing naught but two strips of cloth.

The vision came alarmingly easy. _Now is no time to think about that!_

His mind had been a twirling fog for… how long? He'd lost count of the days, of the moons. Whatever they were giving him—and he knew they were, just hadn't been able to carry enough of a lucid thought to realize it—had deadened his senses as well as his mind.

Maidens awaited in his hut every night, sometimes one, sometimes more. How was a person to know refusing them would be such an insult? It's not as if this being a god-thing came with a manual; first time he'd been a god, in others' eyes, at any rate. They certainly were not virgins—they must save those for another god—because they knew too well what was to be done.

It was a reverse world, them using him. Oh, aye, his cock rose easy enough, but not for them. Amid a tumult of faces, dark and broad-featured, daubed in ochre, his cock saw one of pale, sun-glowed skin, penetrating eyes that reflected the seas, and a tangle of hair the color of the flames. Heart pounding, he reached for her, calling, but his outstretched hands didn't find the soft roundness of a hip, or the full-breasted weight they knew so well, only mud-daubed bodies, hardened by a harsh life.

_Troubling, that._

Seeing Gibbs and his crew led away had been a jolt. When he and his crew had first been taken captive, they had been allowed a reasonable amount of freedom. The men of the _Pearl_ seemed to have been moving in distant-faced slow motion, but it was unclear if it were he or them, or both, under the influences of some form of magic or incantation. In the deep reaches of his mind, he knew he was missing something, but it was a struggle to remember how—or even why—he had came to be there.

The spell-breaking epiphany came during one of those tumultuous nights. These people of the forest wore a myriad of adornments, many best not to be examined too closely. As one maid rode him, her breasts wobbling hypnotically in his face, the light of the fire gleamed on something at her neck. A hand that might have been his reached out, his fingers tingling when he touched it.

A pearl. The pearl—his pearl.

His _Pearl_!

The revelation was staggering. Now he knew it wasn't his imagination, there really was something calling him from the black sand beaches.

First order of business had been to stop drinking the _ouicou_. More easier said than done. Sweet it was, and not all that unpleasant, with a wicked kick. It wasn't rum, but it had been a blessing, until he realized its consequences. He had noticed that his always came in the same ornate, pewter cup, from a separate brewing pot. He became adept at disposing of it when no one was looking. Easy enough: "Look over there!" and they did.

He arched a dubious brow at the withering plants next to the throne, where he had been tossing the stuff, not an overly encouraging sight. Experimentally, one night he had dribbled a bit on a beetle, and then a snail; stopped them both dead in their tracks.

"_I feel the same way, mate."_

With the cup upended, he had noticed something else startling, stamped into its bottom: the logo of the East India Trading Company.

"_How the bloody hell…?"_

_Ouicou_-free, the days gradually became countable, albeit slowly, but at least he knew how many, by scratching a notch in the post of his hut each night, with a piece of sharpened shell. They didn't trust him with anything else.

Now clear-minded, the nights became even more bizarre. Enough said about that. If he refused the women, they would know he was on to their ploy, and there was always the ugly scene of the first time he had tried to decline as a not-so-gentle reminder. So, he played along. At least it helped pass the time.

But with clarity came urgency. Granted, Jones' wretched beast might still be out there, circling, but he'd take his chances. Hell, from all observations, one way or another, he was going to be eaten anyway. He'd rather it be at sea, with his ship, than stranded on some mountaintop… high and dry, like some bloody goat.

It was a small matter of "how."

And so, he counted the days, and waited for his opportune moment.

With a better awareness of what was happening, also came a new enemy: boredom. Sailing the sea could mean months of seeing nothing but water and sky; many would call that boring. It paled in comparison to the new Hell he had discovered.

_Need to add that as a bit of a warning in that god manual._

Death by boredom; Jones had to be involved somehow. Only he possessed the mind devious enough to come up with this torture.

His arse was near raw, and although he'd never really spent a large amount of time considering the shape of it, it was quite possibly permanently flattened. Never, since the day he ran off to sea, had he spent so much time in one place. It was unnatural. Another proof it was Hell.

Hunger can make a soul do strange things, things that one might never have thought probable, or possible. He tried not to hear the sizzle and pop while chunks of meat roasted on sticks stuck in the ground around the fire. He had called for more dancing, to help drown out the sound, but to no avail; there was no denying the smell. Gagging with revulsion, screaming voices questioned what was being ceremoniously presented to him on battered silver platters. Which one of his men was it? Gibbs? Or Cotton?

_Na. He'd be too tough._

_Marty? Nay. Not enough there._

_But then, who?_

He couldn't outright refuse to eat; he'd be the next meal, which was probably the case anyway, but he preferred to think that he wasn't precipitating his own demise, stoking his own cook fire, as it were.

Before, he had relied on the _ouicou_ to wash down the meat. Without it? Well, he tried a bit of slight of hand, and dropped it into his shirt to be disposed of later. The camp dogs had given him away.

_Wretched beasts! Why don't they eat those?_

Spitting it out didn't work; they caught him at that, with curious frowns that bordered on suspicion. Retching in his hut at night, under the concerned eyes of his maid-of-the-evening had become routine; not the most romantic move he had ever made, but there were worse things… maybe. Anyway, didn't seem to put them off, by much anyway.

He managed to negotiate a bit of an "arrangement," with one of the maids, but she had developed misgivings. He asked for fruit, fish, or vegetables… something. Lord knows they had enough of it about; veritable Eden it was, but they seemed to think such things were too common for a god.

_Why should a god not wish for a melon?_

And the lizard, with the accusing eyes, roasted on a stick was no more tantalizing. Judging by the ceremony with which it had been delivered to him, it was a delicacy reserved only for the godly… but good God!

By his judgment, he was a prisoner. Royalty—goddom—had its drawbacks, another axiom to be added to the massive tome that was his Book of Life's Lessons. They never let him out of the village, nor even near the fringes, so he couldn't go foraging for a bit of something to eat, let alone escape. Couldn't even get away from their prying eyes when he took a piss.

_Disquieting, that._

He was well accustomed to men watching; thirty-odd years on a ship left one with little modesty. However, he found it blessedly difficult to make water, with women who looked old enough to be his mum, or grandmum for that matter, watching.

_Old biddies! _They reported every move he made, watching him like a sea gull on a dead fish… and he was the fish.

He had tried hinting, in an effort to learn where Gibbs and the men had been taken, while trying to keep a tally of the "meals." As best he could figure, there were still enough men remaining to make a crew. He'd sail the _Pearl_ single-handed, if necessary... anything to get away. His first order of business after was going to be to clearly mark this godforsaken island on the charts with a very big "X".

And so, he counted the days… and men… and waited.

**It **was an unseasonably warm afternoon, rendering Kate's corner room at Marguerite's unbearably stuffy and hot. The walls were beginning to close in, but that sense had little to do with the weather conditions. She needed to get out.

It was a frequent affliction of late. Having grown up in open spaces, living in the Highlands for several years, and then learning an appreciation for the sea, she had a tendency to resist small confines, her years of living in London only teaching her to associate cities with suffering and struggle. If she were honest, it wasn't just the matter of a small room causing the trapped sensations; a number of issues were contributing to that.

A light, coded tap—one and then two quick—signaled it was one of the servant girls at the door. Kate bid her to enter.

It was Minnie. Her name said it all: Small of stature and voice, with tiny features, fine nondescript brown hair that straggled from under a mop cap, she was diminutive in every sense of the word. She ducked a curtsy, her eyes downcast.

"Madame Marguerite wishes to see you."

Relieved for an excuse to leave, Kate made her way downstairs, nodding a passing acknowledgment to the half-dressed women idling in the hall. A man following close behind one of the women indicated that they were working and, moving aside to allow them to pass, Kate only met them with a brief connection of the eyes. The customers weren't paying for chat; something Marguerite reminded them of on a regular basis.

Marguerite was fair but stern. She expected an honest day's work for an honest day's wage from her _filles_, a room and meals included. She was a stickler for cleanliness—a strong mark in her favor, as far as Kate was concerned—of both the rooms and her working girls, and wasn't shy about calling someone on the carpet if they failed to meet her stringent standards. Drunkenness was grounds for instant dismissal, but the occasional drink at the behest of a customer was always encouraged.

In exchange, Marguerite was a permanent fixture at the front door, carefully screening clients who were too drunk, or known for violence. Gaubert, a wall of a man with a stony countenance, stood as ever-ready enforcement.

Working at Marguerite's was considered a privilege by everyone; they all knew a street whore's peril, and willingly gave whatever it took to remain in her employ. Consequently, there was a family-like atmosphere, a sisterhood that bound the Cyprians, each pitching in for the welfare of the others.

Kate pulled up at the bottom of the stairs, inwardly groaning. The hallway and parlor were remarkably crowded; more ships must have made port. Ordinarily, Kate would have used the backstairs, avoiding the business section of the house, but Marguerite had beckoned. It would be unwise to ignore her.

Kate made a point of not making eye contact with any of the men milling about, coolly ignoring their leering looks. A few approached, but murmuring pleasant excuses, she slithered away, artfully dodging their groping hands.

It was uncomfortable to see the harlots lined up, preening before their prospective customers. Scantily dressed, they were draped in boas, silk shawls or wrappers, their breasts pushed up to painful proportions. They had started the day appropriately powdered, rouged, and coiffed, but it was late afternoon, and the day had taken its toll. Patches and streaks of pink skin peeked through the rice powder pancake; their hair hastily twisted up; crushed and sweat dampened curls straggling about their shoulders. The air in the room was thick with sweat, rum, tobacco smoke and cheap perfume.

Kate finally found Marguerite's strawberry blond head, a bright spot amid the weathered drab of the mariners, in the midst of a price dispute with a customer. Kate would have to wait.

Marguerite bore the features of having once been a very attractive woman, her fine-boned hands and feet indicators of a once delicate, lovely woman. Aside from a freckled, ample bosom, a musical voice deepened by maturity, and a-once-small waist, she had aged gracefully; it was virtually impossible to guess her age.

In a profession that wasn't known for being gentle, the years had been very kind to her. Little was known about her past, other than rumors of rich benefactors and well-placed admirers; speculating was a favorite off-hour pastime for the women. In spite of her comeliness, she still had a businesslike air that prompted most to be reluctant to cross her. She didn't suffer arguments, and had a quick tongue that made anyone regret they had provoked it.

A heavy hand at Kate's waist startled her, the hot breath reeking of boiled onions and ale blowing across her neck.

"I heard there was a new one," he slurred, and began clumsily fumbling at the neckline of her bodice. "Let's see what ye've got in there, honey."

With a tight-lipped smile, Kate tried to duck away, squirming out from under his attacking mouth. Gaubert was near, but she preferred not to call him, unless absolutely necessary. Salvation came in the form of a soft, yet remarkable strong arm.

"You can't afford her, Newcombe," Marguerite warned good-naturedly. The years had taught her how to manage half-drunken men. "Celia has just come downstairs; you like her," she crooned, steering him away, like a recalcitrant child. "Look. See, she's over there, smiling at you."

The madam guided the stumbling seafarer across the room, and then quickly returned to usher Kate away by the elbow. "You shouldn't be down here," she scolded quietly.

"Minnie said you wanted to see me."

"_Mon dieu_!" She rolled her eyes in exaggerated irritation. "Sometimes I wonder how that child can mange to remember her name. I told her I wanted you to meet me in the dining room."

It was difficult to be angry with Minnie; the girl was an earnest worker, but easily confused. The dining room was strictly off limits to any of the customers, reserved for only the employees, and would have been much more convenient.

Muttering under her breath in an odd combination of French and Portuguese, Marguerite pulled a pouch from her cleavage and rummaged in then pressed several coins into Kate's palm.

"What's this?" Kate exclaimed, attempting to hand them back.

"It's what I owe you," Marguerite replied, as she firmly deflected Kate's attempts.

"No, it's not. That wasn't our agreement."

"Well, perhaps I've changed our agreement," Marguerite countered firmly, taking a moment to secure a lock of hair, a continuation of her running battle with the errant lock that perpetually dangled over one eye. "_You_ violated the terms first by working far more than we agreed, so I'm just breaking it a little more."

"But, I—"

"_Assez de bêtise!"_ Marguerite's gray eyes sharpened. "You've been working as hard as anyone in this house—and you shall be paid. No one has ever accused me of not paying my _filles_. Now, you've been in that room for days. Jouex, at the _La Sirène Vierge,_ says she has made fresh chowder today, and has said that the Gicquels are away for the day; something about a death of an aunt, or some such nonsense, on the other side of the island."

She waved a hand, swatting away the matter as if it were an annoying gnat, dramatically rolling her eyes again. "Only death would draw those two away. Anyway, we know you'll be safe," she said, winking conspiratorially as she guided Kate out of the dining room and through the kitchens. "And we all know, it's Jouex that makes the best chowder. Go have yourself a bowl, and something cool to drink, and don't come back until after dark."

They argued for a few more minutes, but only for form; it was a foregone conclusion that Marguerite would prevail. With the coins in her pocket, ultimately Kate was shooed out the kitchen door, and stepped off the porch, into the afternoon's blaze.

The street was hot with the harbor's breeze blocked by the buildings, the passing freight wagons and carriages stirring clouds of dust that hung at Kate's knees. Dodging between several carts and other traffic, she stepped into the cool dark of the tavern.

If opened, the tavern's large windows facing the bay allowed for a luscious breeze. Such was never the case, if the Gicquels were there. But they were gone, and Kate took the liberty of opening the one at her table, blowing away the tavern smells of spilled ale, tobacco smoke, burning wax and unwashed male. Granted, the air from the harbor brought fish, oyster beds, saltwater and tar, but Kate found those far more preferable.

The serving girl—not a girl by any stretch of the imagination—was new, and didn't recognize Kate. She was congenial enough, displaying a smile that constituted of a grand total of five teeth as she approached the table.

"I hear there is fresh stew today," Kate said eagerly, beginning to fully realize the joyous relief of having escaped the house.

The woman looked a bit disconcerted that Kate might have that bit of information. "Only just."

After ordering, Kate propped her chin in her hand and stared out the window, running an idle finger around the rim of her untouched ale. Eventually, she would drink it, but the ale hadn't been her primary purpose. Her goal had been to get away from Marguerite's, but there had been something even more enticing: sea, salt, and sailors.

She could watch the bay there, and dream of where she had been, and places she would probably never be. When she had left Bristol some months ago, there had been no specific destination for her, just an urgent need to leave. Having never heard of Sint Maarten until the _Black Pearl_ had pulled into the harbor, it was the last place she would have imagined, but here she was.

All in all, it wasn't a bad place. Unlike London, it was a French jurisdiction, and so her outstanding warrants were of no concern. Her pirate brand could be an issue, but she kept it concealed by a strip of cloth tightly bound around her wrist. Marigot was large enough to offer a few amenities, without the squalor and corruption of a large town like New Providence or Port Royal. Perhaps Jack had known what he was doing when he left her, but to appreciate his thoughtfulness was to acknowledge his deception.

Knowing someone cares isn't always the most comforting.

Through the low hum of the room, her thoughts were interrupted, by a sense of someone watching, and turned her head to see a man standing in the doorway staring. He nodded solemnly as he passed several, his shipmates by all appearances, as he made his way through the taproom. Not wanting to appear to be staring, Kate looked away, but could still feel his gaze. The drag of a bench, and voices as he ordered indicated that he was sitting behind her, several tables away.

The arrival of food was a pleasant distraction. The chowder was as fresh as advertised, with fish, potatoes and onions, creamy, and rich with butter, a wedge of fresh bread on the side. As she ate, she was acutely aware of being observed.

A commotion in the harbor drew her attention. A launch had loosed its mooring, and was drifting toward other non-suspecting craft. Those aboard the sloop, from which the dinghy had escaped, were shouting, beckoning for help; with no means to get off their ship, they weren't able to do much else. Gaffing and cargo hooks were employed in futile attempts to snag the refugee as it passed first one ship, and then another. A valiant soul leaped into a dory, and furiously rowed in an effort to round up the errant vessel.

The sound of a throat clearing next to her made Kate jump, and she was startled to find the tall man standing at the side of her table.

"_Excusez-moi, Mlle… Madame,_" he corrected quickly, spying her wedding ring. "_Moyen de te causer l'alarme."_

Kate laughed softly. "Your French is as poor as mine," she said in English.

He rolled his eyes in relief, smiling self-consciously. "I hope I didn't cause you alarm… I mean, I didn't—"

"No. No, it's quite all right."

He looked off in several directions as he unmercifully fondled the brim of his hat. "May I…" He nearly strangled on his words from embarrassment, and paused to refresh his courage. "Might I be so bold as to ask if I might sit… just for a moment," he hastily assured.

Kate found it odd, and not a little amusing, that a man—a young one, but still a man—would be so painfully shy.

He flashed a nervous but dazzling smile. "Would you mind…I mean, we seem to be two people alone in a busy place…would you care terribly, if we were to talk—just for a bit?"

The lonesomeness in his eyes nearly broke her heart, and she had visions of just having found a lost puppy. "Certainly."

Nodding an invitation, she watched him sit and immediately launch into a one-sided dialogue. Tall, dark-eyed, square-jawed and bronzed, he was rakishly handsome, but boyishly charming, he had a quite reserve that made him seem alone in a room filled with people. He had the air and smell of a man of the sea, but not necessarily one to it, the sea being a choice, rather than a consuming drive.

He never offered a name, and Kate never asked. She sat quietly, finishing her meal, and listened to tales of ships and seas, and treasures and curses, all the time thinking that on the surface, there was not a rational reason for it, but she couldn't help but be reminded of Jack. At the same time, it would seem the stranger across from her was doing much the same thing, a distance in his eyes suggesting that he was seeing someone entirely different when he looked at her.

Parts of his tales were familiar, but then she had been listening to men, and their sagas for some months now; they had a way of blurring together. As expected, it didn't take long for him to work around to what truly lay on his mind: a love, somewhere far away. He talked about life-long kinships and budding romances, commitments made and promises broken, social stations, shortcomings, salvations, and hopes dashed, only to be rekindled again.

Kate made small sounds of sympathy and offered looks of intent understanding, fully aware that she was not more than a surrogate.

By the third tankard, he slipped into a tangled, unlikely tale of haunted ships, walking skeletons, cursed gold and treasure-filled caves. Just as she was beginning to think it was the ale talking, she was overtaken by a strange sense of recollection. Her attention came back with knife-edged clarity as his story merged with another Gibbs had told her in the pre-dawn hours, on the quarterdeck of the _Black Pearl_.

Noting her reaction, he paused over his drink, his good-humored eyes going acutely observant. "You've heard of the _Black Pearl_?"

Her heart lurched; luckily she had nothing in her mouth, because she probably would have choked.

"Ah." He sat back, nodding in satisfaction. "So you have."

"Everyone in these waters has heard of that ship."

He lifted a dubious brow. "Really?" He gave her a measuring look that rendered him years wiser than his age should have allowed. "Then you would be knowing Jack Sparrow."

He ventured the name with care, looking down at his tankard, but watching closely from under a brow that furrowed a bit too readily.

"I saw you coming from Marguerite's," he said delicately. His eyes flickered to the bright yellow house. "I would imagine anyone from such an establishment would be familiar with Jack."

Kate considered several responses. "Yes, I know… knew him," she finally surrendered.

He took a drink, rolling it in his mouth as he cocked his head, his doe-brown eyes sharpening. "How well?"

Kate snorted, flapping a casual hand. "How well does anyone ever know Jack?"

"True enough," he chuckled grimly then shifted a pointed look at her arm where it rested on the table. "I would venture in saying, that you might know Jack a little better than some."

Kate jerked her arm to her lap, clamping a hand around her wrist. He couldn't have possibly seen; the piece of cloth was firmly in place over her brand. Marguerite had insisted, fearing possible entanglements with the authorities.

"I've seen them before," he answered, divining her thoughts. His confidence wavered for a moment, his face clouding. "Although, I've never seen one on a woman before." He buried his nose in his tankard, gulping a lump. "It must have been a…horrible experience."

Kate balled a fist in her lap, determined not to allow a stranger to force her into reliving nightmares that she had successfully kept locked away. "It was."

His mouth twisted, a wry lifting of one brow indicating that he knew more about her plight than she cared to admit, a sympathetic, contempt-tainted look that she would be so gullible as to become involved with Jack, another woman left in his wake.

His hands were surprisingly calloused, but not those earned by sailing, the skin lacking the leathery creases wrought by sun and weather. Drawing circles in a pool of spilt ale with a fingertip, he chanced a glance through his lashes. "Have you seen him… lately?"

"No." Her own fervor was surprising. "I haven't seen him in months."

She tried to make light of it, but verbalizing the duration of Jack's desertion was a fist in the stomach. It was too painful to tally the time, but a small corner of her mind was more than willing to offer the grand total: four was inclined toward broad generalities, but this miscalculation—if that is indeed what it was—was far off the mark, even for him.

He studied her for several moments then finally, dropped his eyes, shoulders slumping. "No, I suppose not." He heaved a sigh laced with frustration. "I've been trying to make my way from Port Royal to Tortuga, but a storm drove us south. Now, we're trying to work our way back north."

He drained his tankard and rose abruptly. "I want to thank you for allowing me the pleasure of your company, Madame." He ducked a brief bow, an edge in his voice. "I bid you good day."

Kate felt like an old shoe, useless and thrown aside as he walked away. She reconciled herself with the fact that he had a quest, with Jack at the center of it. Beyond that, she didn't want to know. To entertain those thoughts were to bridge the possibility that she might once again be a part of Jack's life. Yes, hope still sprang eternal, but the more rational side of her knew it was never meant to be.

Jack was gone.

Kate was brought back from her reverie by the sense of someone standing nearby, and looked up to find her dark stranger had returned.

"It promises to be a beautiful evening. Would you care to walk?"

Only then did she realize the passage of time. The shadows had lengthened, the breeze waned, and the sun was announcing its intention to surrender the day. As late as it was, many would have considered it reckless to consent to go walking with a total stranger reckless, but she felt no threat. This face showed only honesty, framed with innocence. She had felt him stealing glances, studying her carefully when he thought she wasn't looking. He wore the look of longing, but only for someone to talk with.

Once outside, she suggested the shoreline road. He gave her his arm, and they made their way up the dusty street, leaving the clatter of town behind. With his long, easy strides, they continued along the shore, idly chatting about everything and nothing, both carefully noncommittal about anything personal. As he grew more comfortable, his confidence grew, but clearly neither of them wanted nothing more than a passing encounter. What purpose would names serve anyway?

"That's an impressive sword," Kate ultimately observed during a lull in the conversation.

His clothing had been finery, but the lace at his cuffs was frayed and grimy; he'd been traveling hard, his shirt gaping at the neck revealing a chest ruddy from the sun. He didn't seem the sort to be fascinated by gilt and lace. His sword was the exception: lacking ostentation, it was a stunningly remarkable instrument.

He blinked, surprised she had noticed, torn between pride and his natural modesty. "I made it."

"You're a blacksmith?"

It wasn't a profession she would have imagined, but now, as she felt the taut curve of muscle of his arm under her hand, and saw the powerful cords in his hands, it all fell into place. She realized then that he carried no pistol, his faith fully in his single weapon. Only time would prove the wisdom of that choice.

"May I see it?"

Swords held little fascination for her, but the glowing pride with which he drew the weapon, and then exhibited it made it worthwhile. In the sun's receding flare, it was even more elegant of line and understated strength. As he held for her to examine more closely, she saw something else: a scar running the width of the palm of his left hand. Once, she had noticed the same on Jack.

"I was apprenticed at thirteen," he was saying, his thumbs lovingly stroking the polished steel. "I used to practice for hours, everyday."

Not overly tall, he was long-armed and lithe, with enough bone to make him formidable. With the grace and broad-boned wrists of a swordsman, it was easy to see him as a fearsome opponent. What he lacked, however, was one trait necessary for a warrior to prevail: the willingness to kill. Jack had lacked it as well; wit and guile being his weapons of survival. Somehow, the dark young stranger with the noble air seemed to possess neither—yet. Uncertainty could be his downfall, the least hesitation in battle his doom. Give his earlier tales, however, perhaps he had already learned that lesson.

Caught up in his own enthusiasm, he eagerly guided her to a grassy patch between the road and shore. Seating her on a fallen tree, he dumped his coat and hat, and gave an exhibition, slashing and lunging, pirouetting with the sword brandished overhead, embellishing with battle narratives.

It was a fascination for Kate, to see someone so anxious to face the world. She could remember the same anxiousness in her brothers, speculating on adventures life might bring. By the time she had met Brian, he had already been seasoned by war in France, and the violence of clan life in the Highlands. Jack, and the men of the _Black Pearl_... well, there was no more to be said there.

The glory of the sunset brought her dark gallant to a halt. Breathing hard, the heat of his exercise radiating through his shirt, he sat next to her, to watch as the day breathed its last gasp, the final rays of the day glistening on the sheen of sweat across his brow and lip.

Connected by something that reached beyond their roadside clearing, their hands met. Silently, they clung to each other, neither seeing the other, one giving the other what they so desperately needed.

As the twilight deepened, he walked her back to town, coming to a halt on Marguerite's porch, once again awkward. The damp night air there was heavy with the spicy sweetness of roses, from the rambler that clamored up the side of the house.

"I'm…sorry," he whispered in a tense rasp. "I shouldn't have…" The porch lamps gilded the bold line of his profile, a flame of red deepening his smooth cheeks. Hesitant, he struggled with the urge to say something, the impulsiveness of youth ultimately prevailing. "You remind me of …someone."

_Christ! Where had she heard that before: Jack, Gibbs, Norrington, and now him?_

Kate laid a reassuring hand on his arm. "It's all right. I understand." And she did.

Momentarily relieved, he grew flustered again at realizing where they stood. "This is Marguerite's," he pointed out, groping for something to say. "I've heard of it, from the men on board. The crew, they say it's one of the finest houses."

"Yes, I've heard that."

"I'm sorry; I wasn't thinking." He began fumbling for his coin purse. "How… how much do I…? I've never done this before, so I have no idea how much… I mean, for your time?" His voice strained, he was suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

A firmer touch on his arm allayed his stress. "Don't worry. It's fine." She hid a smile at his discomfiture, virginal in so many ways. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"No," he said quickly, unsure of which way to look. "Our ship will be away on the moon tide. I have places I have to be."

Kate had a vision of a silvered knight, wielding his sword on a sacred quest.

"I'm sorry to hear that." She said it with all honesty; she had been hopeful of seeing him again. "Thank you for a lovely evening; I was in need of a walk; the pleasant company was an added gift."

In the light of everything they had just shared, turning and walking away seemed inappropriate, a handshake hardly seeming fitting either. Kate rose on her toes, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you…?" Her voice held the question, giving him the option of answering.

She could see the indecision, squaring his shoulders when the choice was made. "Will."

Then he spun and hurried away, disappearing into the flickering shadows of the street.


	27. Chapter 27: We Have A Need to Go Upriver

**Chapter Twenty-seven: ...We have a need to go upriver.."**

**Jack** sat on the _Pearl's_ f'c'stle atop the stack of boxes and crates arranged in a seat—_her_ seat—cradling a rum bottle, and uneasily stared at the dark waters slipping past.

He had charged Gibbs to bear the _Pearl_ to the shallows, but there was only so much that could be done; there was still but one line between two points. Haste had required them to cut across open waters, more open than Jack cared to contemplate, at any rate. He'd posted watches on every masthead, and all four corners of the ship. With any luck, Jones' bloody beast slept at night; by morning they would be at their destination.

The rum was helping; the return of a long lost friend. The first taste had been mother's milk, so soothing to the palate as to suggest heaven couldn't be far behind. Oblivion was what he sought, but it was being blessedly evasive. His only hope now was to drink enough to fill the hole, but that didn't seem to be working either.

The first pitch of the decks as the _Pearl_ drove through the surf, leaving that blood-thirsty, teeming horde on the beach, had been an eloquent reminder of what he had been missing, what had been taken from him. He still couldn't get the smell of land out of his head. His reunion with his dark lady, however, only served to deliver what else he was missing, and a staggering impact it was.

Jack stroked the rough wood of the crate underneath him. It pained him to see where K... _she_ had spent so many hours, with her face to the wind, that maddening tangle tumbling about her shoulders. The image came too readily. He had ordered the crew to dismantle the seat, but there had been a near insurrection; even Gibbs joined in against him. He had to admit, there was some merit to their thinking. He felt her there, a small gift, but one that he clung to.

The approach of footsteps prompted him to inwardly groan. It had to be Turner, still stumbling with every untimely wave. Give him time—what blessed little they might have. After all, he was Bootstrap's boy; it was in him, just had to dig down through the crust of land and propriety, to find the seaman within, maybe even a bit of pirate, if one was to go deep enough.

Will nodded a silent greeting as he mounted the gangway to the f'c'stle. There was an awkward silence as Will stood with his back to Jack, ostensibly to look at the water, provoking a suspicious frown from Jack.

"Where is it that we're going?" Will finally asked over his shoulder.

"Patano River."

The rigid line of Will's shoulders sunk slightly, as he sought patience. "So you've said. And _where_ is this Patano River?"

"Up ahead." Jack took a delight in evasiveness, especially when it grated so deliciously on the whelp's patience. "Should make landfall by daylight, if everything holds."

"And who, or what is there?" Turner's edginess was growing by measurable leaps.

"A friend... sort of... if she's of the mood."

Will turned, his head dropping to his chest. "We're going to see a woman?" he groaned. "Can't you just wait a little while before..."

"Not that kind of woman... a friend." Jack dismissed Will's dismay with a loose swipe of the bottle-bearing hand. "In a time of need, she's been known to be of a nurturing mood. With any amount of luck—and a good enough payment." He glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of crewmen frantically chasing the monkey, and shook his head. At the rate things were going, payment was bloody unlikely. "She might prove to be a great help... for your little problem there," he added, indicating the key-patterned cloth Will carried inside his shirt.

Jack shifted his weight, wincing with a soft grunt.

"You all right?" There was actually a hint of honest concern in the younger's voice.

"Just a might sore; took a couple o' tumbles earlier trying to get away from those savages. The bones don't take the pounding quite like they used to."

Jack squinted into the darkness, seeing Will fully for the first time. The familair blacksmith's clothes were gone, in their place silver-buttoned finery—although considerably worse for wear.

"Pretty fancy togs there." The contents of the bottle sloshed with Jack's gesture. "It would appear you've managed to make your mark in the world, since I saw you last. Smithing must have become quite the lucrative endeavor."

Jack wasn't sure if it was the need to sit, the need for company, or the need for drink, but regardless, Will perched next to him. Taking the proffered bottle, they amiably sat elbow-to-elbow in the dim glow of the lamps.

Will pointed the bottle toward Jack's belt. "What's that?"

"Rabbit's foot," Jack explained, a bit mystified that he would have to explain something so obvious.

"It's the foot that's good luck," Will explained, rolling his eyes.

"If the foot is good luck, then just imagine what the entire beast will bring." Jack scowled, still unclear why the obvious wasn't… obvious.

"Mr. Brown died," Will said at length. Closing one eye, he made a face as he swallowed. "Fell over drunk, into the dunking tub, and drowned one night, so I inherited the business." The thought of benefiting from the misfortune of others seemed to make him uncomfortable.

"Bravo!" Jack declared with a hearty slap on the back. "Although, these don't quite strike one as traveling clothes." He daintily plucked at the no-longer-white sleeve. "Griminess aside."

"These? They're borrowed… for my wedding."

"Wedding! I love weddings! Drinks all around!" Taking the bottle back, Jack took a celebratory drink, just to illustrate his good intentions, but sobered at Turner's sour countenance. The lad did know how to spoil a good time.

"What happened? Cold feet? Stunning realization of what you were about to embark upon? And who was the lucky future Mrs. Turner—or not so lucky, as it were?"

"Elizabeth! You know that!" huffed Will, jerking one shoulder irritably.

"Really?" Jack didn't bother to glean either the sarcasm or disappointment. "I had hoped you might have finally seen your way clear of that bit o' business."

Rigid, Will leaped to his feet. "What do you have against her?"

"Nothing," Jack cooed, goading him back down. "Other than her standing there next to her intended—the other intended, the intended when you weren't intended to be the intended, allowing for whatever your intentions were—to watch me hang…. And a few other… differences."

"Differences?" Will's humor still had an edge of testiness. "You mean on that island, where you two were marooned?"

"Honest, mate! I never touched her!" Be bloody damned if he was going to relive that nightmare! Jack fluttered his eyes. "If anything, I was the innocent bystander."

"I know." Will snatched the bottle, and took a drink. "Nothing happened." He puffed with confidence "She told me. We tell each other everything; she pledged that nothing happened, and I believe her."

Jack drew a weary hand down his face, peeking a baleful eye over top. "I knew you were young, but…" He shook his head, in stunned amazement. "This too, shall pass."

Peering at the boy from the corner of his eye, Jack wondered what Bootstrap would think. In a year's time, the lad had matured. Earnest, strong convictions of right and wrong; overall Bill's offspring was everything he had prided himself on. The seriousness and ramrod stiffness had to have come from his mother's side. _Too bad._

Jack cautiously considered his options, if he should drag out of the lad what he knew was within, or should step away, and allow life to do its evil deeds? The boy seemed on a road toward propriety and proper, sliding fast if someone didn't catch him soon, doomed to a life of insufferable obsession with honor and frippery.

It would have been easier if he had some notion of what Bill would have wanted. Pirate? Hmm… the prospect didn't seem to please him, when they met in the hold. Mariner? For sure, that much was his destiny, unless there was more of his mother in him than originally imagined.

_Good Lord, the innocence is staggering. Bootstrap, I'm doing this for you, even if it gets me run through with that blessed sword of his._

Jack drew a deep breath, and forged ahead. "Dear William, it is my considered—very well considered—opinion, that honesty is highly overrated. Given that, I exercise it as often as I might, but rarely have I been appreciated for me efforts. Complete honesty can only get you shot, or your face slapped. Even as we speak, there is many an honest person being hung at Old Bailey."

"You didn't hang," Will pointed out with some asperity.

"Because of you," Jack observed, stabbing a finger into Wills' shoulder. "And thank you, if I didn't say it before."

Will shrugged, but had the good grace to duck his head. "You're welcome."

The hiss of a sword drawn came without warning. With reflexes that had served him well for decades, Jack lurched sideways, thinking he had just found the limits of the whelp's temperament. He slumped with relief when he saw Will fish into his pocket, and pull out a hone stone.

"You're doing that now?" Retrieving the rum, Jack watched skeptically as Will laid the sword across his legs, making preparations to sharpen it. "A little dark for that, isn't it?"

"I don't need to see." There was a strong point of pride in that statement. "It's all by feel."

The quiet rasp of the stone on the cold steel was a familiar sound. As Will bent to his work, he seemed to take solace in the long, even strokes, seeking strength in what he knew best.

"She helped," Will eventually said over his shoulder, intent on his task.

It took Jack a moment to pick up on Will's point. "After the fact, a salient and distinct difference." It was another scene he'd rather not revisit. Those seemed to be stacking up lately, most of them involving the same person. "Standing in her finery, next to her soon-to-be-ex-fiancé seemed to be more important, at the time."

"She's a woman, Jack. What could she do?"

"That one?" Jack snorted. He narrowed one eye in disbelief, verifying that they both referred to the same person. "Plenty, if she sets her mind to it. Believe me, I know." He needed a drink on that one. "You didn't actually tell her, that she's only a woman?" He barely waited for Will to shake his head. "I thought not, because you're still walking about with all four limbs… and probably all your other… essentials."

Will paused to test the sword's edge, the steel lethally gleaming in the lamplight as he brushed his thumb across it. Satisfied, he set it aside, he gestured to Jack's sword.

"I'm sure yours needs it," Will chided, a glimmer of humor in the dark eyes.

Ruffling at the implications, Jack soon conceded and grudgingly relinquished his sword to the capable hands. "The ship's Master of the Blade is away, right now, so…"

Jack's excuses were cut short by a disgusted sound from deep in Will's throat. "This thing is a disgrace!"

"I've been busy," shot back Jack defensively then peered over the younger's shoulder as he set to work. "Mind now, I've had that one for years. It's like an old friend."

"They all are, Jack." Will's fingers gently traveled the blade, seeking its imperfections. "They learn to know us, just as we learn to know them."

Jack took another drink then curiously leaned closer to Will's face, blearily trying to focus, Will ducking away at the same time. "Did you always have the chin-thing growing?"

Touching a self-conscious hand to his face, Will's brows knitted together, his confusion deepening. "Yes."

"Huh." Jack's scowled, straining to remember. "Don't recall. Anyway, wise choice; the ladies appreciate a bit of dash. Does Elizabeth approve?" he asked around the lip of the bottle as he took a drink.

"Never asked."

Sputtering a laugh that drew the attention of several crewmen, Jack spewed liquor. "Well, you'd better get started with that habit," he choked, dabbing his mouth with a sleeve. "The days of making your own decisions are nigh on over."

"She's not like that."

"Really?" The single word dripped with sarcasm. He hunched forward, better to see Will's face. "And in what fog of reality did you come to that conclusion?"

Will's jaw took a stubborn set. "She's different."

Jack chuckled, finding a number of ironies in that statement. "You just keep saying that," he said, rolling his eyes, trying to curtail his mirth. " I wish you two all the happiness."

"You say that like it's a curse."

The monkey, screeching in complaint, scampered past, bounding toward the bowsprit, with Pintel and Ragetti in hot pursuit—_Still hadn't figured out where they came from_—as Gibbs shouted directives from the main deck.

"No, not at all!" Jack said, displaying a defensive hand. "Elizabeth is not traditional," he went on, blithely ignoring the melee. "She's fiery, headstrong, a little bit spoiled… well all right, a lot spoiled," he corrected quickly. "None of which I'm sure comes as a shock, being as how you two are _all_ _honest_ and everything. After all these years, I'm sure there are no surprises left. Is she ready to settle down, and be the little woman of the house, living on a blacksmith's wage?"

Intensifying his attention to the sword, Will winced as Jack's conjectures found home. "No, not exactly." His discomfiture grew with his next confession. "She has a small inheritance from her mother's side, as soon as she's wed."

"And a sizeable dowry from the good Governor Swann, I would wager."

The scenario wasn't difficult to imagine: the rich and powerful, doting father, who was unaccustomed to being told "No," arguing—with the best of intentions at heart—with a daughter equally unaccustomed to being told "No."

Will stopped in mid-motion, his dark eyes glinting cold. "I don't like the way you said that."

"Sorry." Grimacing, Jack leaned away. "Didn't mean anything by it. Sensitive, aren't we?" he grumbled under his breath. "I meant that I cannot imagine the good Governor standing by to see his dear daughter live in rags… comparatively speaking, of course."

"No." Will grimly sighed, flexing his hands on his knees several times, his knuckles going white with each closing. "He wanted us to live with him, in the mansion…"

Jack stifled a chuckle at that mental image. "That would be cozy."

"But Elizabeth refused." Will's fist curled around the hone stone until the cords stood out.

"And?"

"And what?" Will made a poor attempt at innocence.

"I sense there is an 'and' lingering about somewhere."

Straightening, Will snatched the bottle away, and took a long pull, rolling it in his mouth before swallowing. He hesitated, waiting for the courage he hoped the liquor would supply. "_And_, he built us a house just at the edge of the grounds." The admission came with effort.

"Close enough for Grandfather Swann to see all his little grandbabies. A cozy little scene, to be sure." Jack took back the bottle, and tipped it up for another drink. "I thought as much; I should have put money on that wager."

"Not everyone views a home with hostility. She wants to be the mother that she never had." The explanation came as a too familiar chant, oft-repeated either to himself or Elizabeth. "She wants a home, roots, not moving about, like she did with her father."

_Ah, the bane of every seaman: a permanent anchorage. _"Sounds like purgatory."

"It's not like that, Jack," Will hissed with sudden vehemence. "Not when you love someone." Will snorted, shaking his head. "It's not anything you would know about."

Slumping, Jack thoughtfully rolled the bottle between his palms; Young Turner's words finding more traction that one cared to think. "No, I suppose not."

Jack shuddered, a knot tightening in his chest. He couldn't think about that now. Once his debt with Jones was settled, then he could think about sailing the seas—and eternity—and her. He took another drink, hoping to wash the burl away.

It didn't work.

"So," Jack announced, shaking his head to clear it. "You're in your wedding clothes, which leads one to assume that you thought you were getting married, relatively immediately. What happened?"

"She was at the altar, Jack." The muscles in Will's jaw worked, his fist curling around the hone stone until the cords stood out. "Beckett arrived just in time to arrest us." He swiveled an accusing glare at Jack. "For helping you."

_Beckett!_ _Ah, so that's how it was._ The man knew no bounds.

Mere weeks had passed between Jack's departure and Beckett's abuse of Kate. There! He said her name! For a man of endless words, Jack couldn't begin to express the hatred that boiled in his gut. What Beckett had done to him was just that, between them; with little choice to do aught else, he had lived with it. But what he had done to Kate took matters to an entirely different level.

Jack had never saw himself as one who bore grudges. Live and let live, he who casts the first stone, and all that. Why go to all the fuss of killing, when there were usually easier, and much less messy ways? But this one he'd go to the end of the earth to conjure that bastard's demise, making all the mess possible to bring his end.

He had seen the world, several times over, and had witnessed tortures beyond human description. It might take a while to select just exactly which one would suit his purposes. Nothing fast; Beckett's brain splattered on the deck from a bullet to the head was intriguing, but he fancied something… slower, and far more pain-laden, and debilitating. Beckett watching his life drip away with each splat of blood on the planks was an intriguing thought. And did he mention painful?

There was a long line of people wanting to see Caesar the Short dead. _Get in line, mates. This one's mine_.

Maintaining his bland expression, Jack batted his lashes, and examined his fingernails. "Bit belated, isn't it? That was nigh on to a year ago. I thought I heard Beckett left, Company business, or some such something."

"He was called back to England to take a good dressing down." That thought brought a faint smile to Will. "The stockholders are complaining about losses. He came back with a vengeance."

"So, no wedding, ergo, no wedding night."

"No wedding night," Will ground out between his teeth. Even in the half-moon's light, the flush of his face was deep enough to be visible.

Jack almost felt sorry for Turner. No man deserved to get up that level of… hope, just to have them dashed. He wasn't entirely sure that such a thing wouldn't cause physical damage.

"Surely, you have…?" Jack groped for words, although for the life of him, he had no idea why he felt compelled to be delicate. "I mean that wouldn't have been the first, because certainly you've…?"

"We have not!" Will bristled. "We're waiting."

"For what?" Jack's mouth sagged at the rim of the bottle, and hung there, incredulous. "Don't tell me! Allow me the pleasure of me own conjectures: this was your idea."

"Of course!" Will reddened further, bending to the sword with renewed vigor.

"And how was the future Mrs. Turner feeling on the subject?"

"It's none of your…" hissed Turner vehemently then stopped in mid-motion, surrendering. "It hasn't been easy," he said with some effort, dropping his head down.

Jack gave derisive snort, shaking his head. "Out of the mouths of babes."

"You have no idea how difficult…" Both of Will's hand balled into fists, his body shaking.

"Really?" That one was guttural with sarcasm. "Believe it or not, dear William, I have suffered under the chains of restraint, all evidence to the contrary."

Will regarded him over his arm. "I thought 'Love them and leave them' was your motto."

"Something like that." Jack hoped the boy didn't see him wince.

A ruckus at the forward ratlines distracted them, groups of men converging at the top from the port and leeward, as the monkey scampered up the topmasts.

"You knew my father." It wasn't an idle observation on Will's part, but a challenge, of one wanting to know more. It was a sudden shift of topic, but not unexpected, in Jack's estimation.

"I said as much." Jack saw the question in Will's suddenly young eyes. "He was a good man, good pirate.

"You said that already." Will said coldly. "If you were such good friends, as you claim, you knew him beyond that." He looked away, toward the moon-streamed water, his throat tightening. "I wish I could have known him."

Jack lifted the bottle, only to slowly lower it again. The whelp wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. The lad's regret-laden words tugged at Jack's heart, not unlike his own sentiments in the face of his father's prolonged absence. The stronger memory was the humbling sting at the realization that the love of child and family wasn't strong enough to overcome the love of wind and wave. How could anyone compete with that; certainly not a young boy, lying at night listening to his mother cry from loneliness?

"I knew 'im," Jack sighed. "He was me First Mate, until Barbossa and his pack signed on. It was part of Barbossa's terms, and Bootstrap knew we were in desperate need of a crew, so…" Enough said there.

The sword going forgotten in his lap, Will hunched forward, the eager face of one who needed to know of his history. "Tell me about him."

Jack paused, considering carefully, keenly aware of a host of things Bill would never want his boy to hear. "Not many knew him; he wasn't an easy man to come to know. For the most part, he kept his own council. He had a stubborn sense of what was right and wrong, the obligations a man had to his comrades."

"When did you first meet him?"

"Years ago." Jack could see that wasn't going to be answer enough. He closed one eye, calculating. "Almost twenty-five."

Will sat back, startled. "That was before I was born."

"I remember when he came back." Jack smiled at the memory. "After you were born…"

"Came back?"

"Aye, nothing would do but he had to be there, when your mother's time came," Jack went on, deep in his recollections. "Luckily, we were on a merchant running regular, from Tenerife and back, so we…"

"Merchant?" The furrows in Turner's brow deepened. "I thought he was…"

"A pirate?" Jack easily divined Will's thought. "He was; it was in his blood, you know. Felt the call even when he tried to leave it."

"Leave it?"

Huffing, Jack propped one hand on a hip. "Are you going to allow me to tell this or not?" Jack glared, waiting until Will finally acquiesced. With a satisfied nod, Jack began again. "Several times; he didn't like the treachery or brutality of it, but couldn't give up the freedom."

"Sailing wasn't enough?" Will choked bitterly.

Jack couldn't argue. He'd suffered much the same regarding his father, although by Will's age he had seen the world for what it was, and had put it behind him. Forgiveness isn't always the most savory morsel.

"Not for him," said Jack. "It's different, sailing for your own, and sailing for someone else. It always bothered him, leaving a wife and child behind."

"If it bothered him so much, why didn't he come back?" Will's eyes glittered with cold resentment.

"Conscious, William." Jack stroked the glass with his thumb. "Your father had the misfortune of a well-cultured conscious. Knowing what all he'd seen and done, he feared he would sully your lives."

"We would have gladly suffered the inconvenience." The grind of the hone stone rasped in short agitated strokes.

"He would have eaten himself from the inside out." Will's failure to comprehend was apparent. "You're still young, William. Life out here, as a pirate, does things to a man. The barbarianism is day-to-day, so we live with it, because that's how you stay alive. But back there, among the civilized, you realize the savage you've become. Soon come the regrets and recriminations…" He shuddered elaborately. "It's nasty business. Eventually, you either drink yourself into oblivion, or you go back to it, where you belong."

Will paused again, leaning heavily on his knees. "So you're saying, it was for our own good that he was gone?" Years of pain pinched the corners of Will's eyes.

"In a manner of speaking," Jack nodded placidly.

Growling under his breath, Will gave Jack's sword a cursory inspection. "You'll excuse me, if I don't feel so privileged." He punctuated his annoyance with an extra bit of force as he shoved the sword at Jack. He abruptly lurched to his feet, and set to pacing the rail.

Jack wagged an admonishing finger. "Judge others as you would judge yourself."

"Pretty philosophical, aren't you?" Will shot back, without missing a step.

"Just remember, Will, we all do things, for whatever reasons that seemed perfectly solid at the moment, because that moment was all we had. Hindsight is always viewed through a different lens."

"So, am I to believe that the great Captain Jack Sparrow has regrets?"

"If you can't control it, then you can't help it. And if you can't help it, then there's nothing to be sorry for."

The wretched monkey quest interrupted them again. As Jack watched the horde of crewmen scrambling past his eye caught something fluttering on the surface next to his leg, gleaming coppery-red in the lamplight. Cautiously plucking it from the rough wood grain, he felt the fine silkiness between his fingers. Dark at the ends and lightening to a bronze at the tips, the strands' curliness coiled around his fingers, almost clutching. A chill coursed through him amid the warm glow of a hand at his cheek. And then she was gone.

"What's that?" Will was more wary than curious.

Lost in the visions the few strands wrought, Jack stumbled for words. "Nothing… really," he finally croaked. A tremor took him, and he clutched the hairs in his fist.

Will bent to more closely scrutinize. "Looks like someone's hair; must have been sitting here. Easy enough to understand." He pulled some from the boards next to his leg. "Here's some more."

Will momentarily scrutinized the hairs. Just as Jack was reaching for them, Will disgustedly tossed them over his shoulder. Jack's hand arced after them as they sparked in the light, and then faded into the darkness.

"Err… umm… where was I?" Jack murmured, tucking away the fragile treasure with cautious care.

"Lecturing me on the finer points of life," Turner sighed glumly. "Elizabeth is in prison, Jack," he resumed with renewed determination. "Waiting to be hanged, for helping you." Will said it with the obvious hope of making Jack feel guilty, but in his estimation, there was enough guilt to go around.

"And you're out here, trying to set her free." Jack touched his finger to his chin, rolling his eyes skyward. "How is it that she was arrested, and yet here you are?" He slid a suspicious look sideward.

_The boy was good! Not a flicker or tic of guilt. Oh the power of conviction!_

"_I need that compass of yours, Jack. I must trade it for her freedom." _Not, "I need that compass to trade to Beckett," or "Beckett will trade Elizabeth's freedom for that compass," just " I need…" It didn't take a scholar of human nature to connect the dots between Elizabeth's imprisonment, Will's demands, and Beckett's grasping clutches. More to the matter, Jack didn't like being played the fool, or being played at all, for that matter. Deceit and betrayal had their own smell, not overly difficult to detect, once you knew them, and Turner was wearing them both, like a whore's perfume.

On a side note, Jack found it interesting that sod Beckett was holding another woman hostage. _Doesn't mind hiding behind a woman's skirts, does he?_

"Odd, isn't it?" Jack pressed. "Already doing things we would never have done, are we? Hoping we'll be forgiven for our transgressions and misdeeds?" He chuckled to himself. "Ah, treachery, at first it deceives; at last it betrays."

Jack's curiosity was piqued. Beckett was usually a much better negotiator, his stubby claws digging deeper, with much more on the table. It would be remarkable that he would fail to do so now, especially after all the effort to set this up.

"You have no idea what love is like, Jack, the things you'll do for that special person."

Jack thoughtfully fondled the fine hairs. "True enough, William. True enough. But I'm about to find out." He looked up, giving a theatrical shrug. "Never to late to learn, eh?"

Will tread the deck like a caged cat, finally halting in front of Jack with an accusing glare. "Why do I feel like you're keeping something from me, about my father?"

Jack met Will's heated look, with a cool gaze. "Guilt?" Will flinched, that simple reflex confirming Jack's conclusions. "I would imagine there could be goodly amount of that to go around, don't you think?"

Will's hand came to rest on his sword, his fingers coiling around the hilt. "I don't like being coddled."

"There are some things, Will, that a man prefers to reveal at his own discretion."

"Allow me to be the judge of that. I just wish I could have talked with him, for just one minute, that's all I would need," Turner seethed. Muttering under his breath, he angrily swiping at the air, and stalked aft.

A whoop of joy echoed from below decks; the monkey was contained; bringing Jack's plans that much closer to fruition.

When the whelp was well away, Jack carefully secured the fine strand of hairs around one of his cords of hair, its end coming to rest at his heart.


	28. Chapter 28: Dutch Uncle

**Chapter Twenty-eight: Dutch Uncle**

**There** was a need to be cautious; Jack was acutely aware.

Let Tia Dalma get her talons in him again… and well… not good.

This required a clear mind… of everything… including _her._ _No names, mate—and no faces either!!_

He looked at the conjuress, and shook his head. _What the bloody hell had I been thinking? _Other than the fact that she was a woman—more or less—there was nothing the least bit enticing.

_What had it been? The rats nest hair? The curling fingers? The wheedling voice? Or the squid ink teeth? Just what was it that you fancied? Gives desperation a whole new meaning._

But then, he found himself questioning his own judgment a lot lately.

Gratitude had played a large part in it, to be sure. She had cured him, brought him back from death itself. Not quite sure how, probably matters there that shouldn't be delved into too deeply.

But then, she had also turned around, and sent him right back to death's door. She told him how to find Jones, his weaknesses, a way to deal with him. She had shown him the way to get his ship back. Owed her a lot, just right there.

She had given him the compass, as well—well not given… exactly. There had been—should have been—payment. _That's another matter for another day._

_Maybe she forgot._

_Bloody unlikely, but maybe… hopefully._

** ***********************

**Will **came up beside Gibbs on the quarterdeck, the _Black Pearl's_ first mate staring intently toward the bow. "What is it, Gibbs?"

Gibbs barely shrugged, his brows knit to the point of nearly touching. "Dunno."

Following Gibbs' gaze, Will peered closer, until he could finally make out a dark shape marked by the ghostly white of shirt sleeves hunched on the stack of boxes at the f'c's'tle, the white of his sleeves a ghostly image. "It's just Jack, isn't it?"

So lost in thought, Gibbs didn't answer for several moments. "I've seen the Cap'n in his cups enough times a'fore, but I ain't never seen 'im like this. Not even after he lost the _Pearl_."

"He's that bad?" Gibbs' concern seemed remarkable. Jack Sparrow drinking posed little surprise. He'd seen Jack sitting on the foredeck frequently, both while under way to Tia Dalma's bizarre shack, and currently making way to find the _Flying Dutchman._ What did strike Will as surprising was to see Jack linger in one place for so long; usually he churned about the deck, haranguing everyone in his path.

"That bad," Gibbs sighed grimly. He broke from his stare enough to arch Will a knowing look. "Drink can do strange things to a man, Will."

"Really?" Will was unable, nor inclined toward gleaning any of his derisive skepticism from his voice. "I worked with one for over eight years."

"Aye, well, Brown was just a sloppy drunk," Gibbs equivocated, dismissing Will's point with a slight lift of one shoulder. Gibbs leaned closer, continuing in a half-whisper. "Comes from disappointments, no aims in life. Some men—like Ol' Jack there—is a people drunk; folks just naturally wanna be around him, knowin' they're gonna have a grand ol' time.

"Others are sad drunks. Outa nowhere, they start blubberin' like babies, fallin' all over each other, like they was long lost kin, or their mamas had just died."

Wrapped deep in thought, he pursed his lips. "Then there's the braggin' drunks. Whatever it is—you name it—and they're better at it, seen more of it, or know more about it, than anyone around, and are willin' to prove it, right there on the spot. Arm wrestlin', spittin', shootin', swallowin' the most live roaches; nothin's too stupid for them to try. Gotta watch for them," Gibbs warned, shaking a finger in Will's face. "They start trouble without meanin' to, all kinda hell breakin' loose.

"Then, there's the mean drunk. Men that wouldn't kill a ship's rat or take the Lord's name in vain, suddenly go down right rabid and surly-like. There ain't no pleasin' 'em, and they hate everyone and everything, includin' themselves, to my way o' thinkin'. They start fights, just to see blood, preferably yourn. Lotta bad things that don't bear repeatin' happen then. Ol' Ed Teach was a mean drunk. So was L'Oliandes; they say he fed his victims their own hearts.

"There's also the worst kind: the dark drunk," Gibbs went on in dogged determination. "Hopeless they are, and sullen. They're the ones what put a gun to their heads, and no one knew why. Dark drunks got no hope, so far as they can see. Anything, disappointment or loss, defeat, that's what a dark drunk feeds on."

"What's the problem?" Straining to follow his line of thought, Will still failed to see Gibbs' point. "You said Jack…"

"Was a people drunk… usually," Gibbs nodded, agreeing with his own conjectures.

"So, what's wrong, now?" The day's trip up the river, to Tia Dalma's shack, had been disquieting enough, Gibbs' tale he had woven along the way an unnecessary embellishment. In a way, Will envied Jack, at the moment. Rum sounded like a very good way to ease his qualms and wash away the smell of the shack… and her.

"Dunno. Just, somethin's not right. It just don't feel right a'tall. Somethin' in the wind," Gibbs murmured, looking skyward.

"Because he's scared?"

"O' what?" Gibbs slid a wary look, as if Will might know more than he should.

"Jones? The kraken?" Will suggested hastily.

Gibbs appeared to have forgotten their earlier discussion that day, in the boat as they were making way up the Patano River. He paused, considering the two options as if they were no more than two fussy old aunts.

"Nay! Minor set backs, in a manner o' speakin'. Jack's like one o' them moths that ye see that keeps bangin' away at the window of a night. The courage of a lion, you'd think, and at first, they do. Exceptin' little by little, there's that one, last time they hit the glass—not hard, mind—but it's just finally to much… and they give up."

"Jack give up?" Will rolled his eyes, suspecting that Gibbs had just sucked him in with another one of his elaborate yarns. "Now you're the one drinking."

"Aye, mebbe," Gibbs grumbled, reflexively touching his flask. He didn't sound the least bit convinced, but was intrigued by his next thought. "Or, mebbe there be somethin' else. Mebbe the Cap'n stands to lose a lot more."

With uncharacteristic liberty, Gibbs took Will by the arm and goaded him toward the companionway. "Go talk to 'im. Talk him out of it."

"Talk him out of what?" Will protested, dragging his feet.

"Cheer him up," Gibbs declared at the top of the steps, shooing Will away.

"From what?" pleaded Will, spreading his arms, but to no avail, his only response being Gibbs flapping a hand, urging him on. Sidling cautiously toward the bow, Will wondered what in the world he was supposed to do now.

******************

**Jack **wasn't quite sure how he had come to be at the f'c's'tle again, with a rum bottle—again. Events were beginning to blur a bit. Perhaps that was a good thing.

Tia Dalma's croon still echoed in his head, his cheek still as chilled from her snakeskin touch. Even the blessed rum couldn't erase that. Still, the visit had to be classified as a victory: he'd escaped with his goods intact. No small feat there.

His goods ached, but certainly not for the smell of herbs and ink, nor those curling fingers.

_Sorry, lads. No relief in sight, not what you were hoping for, at any rate. Alternatives… options… Aye, something, but not what we long for._

He was trapped in his own self-inflicted hell, longing to the point of distraction the very person that he could not name—not even imagine, or call her face. And yet, he clung to that very memory, necessarily, if he were going to ever successfully navigate this quagmire. She was his anchor, his lifeline, his only guarantee that he might ever return from Jones' clutches.

Luckily, he'd kept his thoughts quelled, offered up enough diversions. She had been too obsessed with Turner to be paying attention to aught else. Ordinarily, she could sniff out those mental wanderings like a hog on truffles.

"… _Jack Sparrow does not know what he wants! Or do you know, but are loathe to claim it as your own?"_

_What the bloody hell did that mean? Can't bloody well claim it, when it already belongs to someone else. I claim it, and then the one that already owns it comes along, and claims it back. Then what, eh?_

_I know what I want._

_Yes, I know. But you can't have that, can you?_

_I know what I want._

Since they had left Patano River earlier that day, there had been a smugness about Turner, above and beyond his usual abundantly exuberant youthfulness, that he didn't entirely trust. He seemed to think he knew something no one else did. Or did he think the black spot, or the key gave him an upper hand? Or had Tia Dalma filled his head with notions? God knew she could do that without ever laying a hand on him. Too long in her presence, and Turner would have been knowing far more than was needed to be known.

The sound of a throat clearing came from the dark next to him and he jumped, sloshing rum. Then Turner's face came out of the shadows. Irritably brushing the droplets from his leg, Jack nodded a curt greeting to Will as he scuffed to a halt at the rail. Ruining a perfectly good drunk, he was.

"How far to… wherever it is we're going?" The lad's attempt at starting a conversation was fairly feeble, but what else was there to do?

"The glass says rain, but if the wind holds, tomorrow."

Very well, then. Other matters had come to his attention, pressing equally as heavy. It was time to attend to his responsibilities, regardless of how distasteful they might be. _This is for you, Bill!_

Straightening, swaying precariously, Jack gathered himself up. "It occurred to me, dear William, that your father, despite all his best intentions, might not have been present to give you… to offer the advice that a man needs before he goes out into the world. I flatter to think of meself as your father's best friend, and therefore, it behooves me to step in… in his place."

Turning slowly, Will looked a bit stunned. "Jack, I don't need you to tell me…"

"On the contrary, but you do!" Jack insisted, resolute in his self-appointed mission. "It's your wedding night…well, not really—actually—but someday, it will. You've indicated this will be a maiden voyage, in several senses of the word."

"Elizabeth would never…"

"Elizabeth most certainly _would_." Jack wagged an admonishing. "William, it takes no genius to see Elizabeth is rebellious, spirited, and fears few challenges, looking for adventure in every way, if you take my meaning."

Will's jaw set and his eyes blazed as he reached for his sword, squaring for battle. "Apologize," he hissed, "or I'll…"

"Put the sword away, young gallant," Jack cooed, only marginally threatened. Being run through by the whelp was only a vague possibility. He gave William's arm a firm but gentle shove, guiding the sword back to its resting place. "It was meant as a compliment."

"Slandering her morals is a compliment?" The lamplight caught the glitter in Will's eyes, his fists balling at his sides.

Pausing to take a long pull from the bottle, Jack narrowed one eye, considering how best to approach said delicate matter. Hotheaded, brash and over-sensitive, it was a hazardous stew with the lad. Jack never fancied himself as an educator with regard to the finer _affaires charnelles_. He had managed to learn on his own, thanks to a few very generous whores, one most in particular. He'd never forget her_. Maisie, Alize, Liza? What was her name?_

"William, there are things you obviously have not yet learned about the fairer sex. Didn't you have friends, or someone to tell you anything?" From all evidence, Jack rather doubted it, but it was a vague hope, something to build upon.

"They did, but most of it I didn't believe." Averting his eyes, Will industriously plucked at nonexistent spots on his sleeve.

"Eh, wisely so, I would imagine," Jack reluctantly conceded. "Usually, the one what brags the most is usually the one what knows the least."

There were many things he had no intention of relating to Turner; let him figure it out for himself. A certain pleasure could be extracted from the quest of such knowledge. Jack didn't care to consider the cost of his own edification, the price being far more than just a matter of coin. And just when he had thought he knew it all, K… _she_ came along, opening avenues he had never thought possible. She was a wonder.

Still, this was an emergency, of sorts. Seemed to him like one, at any rate.

Jack sat down heavily, roughly pulling Will down beside him. Cocking his head back, Will peered skeptically down his nose, unsuccessfully trying to pull away from Jack's grasp.

"And now, you're going to teach me, I suppose."

"All right, if you wish…"

"No," sighed Will, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I don't need to hear about your escapades with whores."

"Do not underestimate the value and powers of those misfortunates!" Will punctuated Jack's point with a derisive snort. "You could do quite well with one or two; might teach you a lot of things, compassion among them. They are women, Young William, just like your mum, or mine, or your dear Elizabeth. You should spend some time with one. You might be surprised."

"I did, actually," Will announced, with a note of discovery. "Just a few weeks ago, while I was looking for you."

"Bravo! Good boy! And?"

"And… we talked."

Jack groaned, running a hand down his face. _Like dragging a hog from its wallow. _"Well, it's a start. And?"

"And we talked… and walked a bit." Bracing his elbows on his legs, Will ducked his head, embarrassed by his next admission. "It was nice to have someone to talk to, that didn't have a hairy face. She seemed to understand. Somehow… she knew."

"Ah! See! I love it when I'm right. 'Course, we wouldn't be needing this conversation, if you would have done what any full-blooded lad should be doing."

"It wasn't like that with her," shot back Will heatedly. His jaw flexed as he continued to look away.

Jack snorted, shaking his head. He had no idea who said harlot might have been, but he sincerely doubted her skills. Probably going hungry, if she were that easily deflected. On the other hand, this was Turner; there was a limit which he doubted even his own skills could overcome.

"Let's see," Jack began, touching a finger to his chin. "First Elizabeth, and then a whore. What is it about you that keeps putting women off? You really need to look into that, William. It's not healthy. Maybe you are a eunuch; women could have a way of knowing these things, you know." Will's shoulders hitched a little higher, but made no comment. _Well, silence is consent._

"Elizabeth's a young—very young—woman of passions." Jack shook his head. "I hope you're prepared, because once said passions are unleashed, it's going to take a goodly amount of endurance—both in the bedroom and out."

"I'm not so sure I'm comfortable discussing this with you…" Will's hands flexed repeatedly, one boot heel thumping a rapid tattoo on the planks, a sure sign of a man fit to burst.

"Of course you're not." Jack tried to instill as much sympathy as could be managed. "But I'm willing to bet she is, and more than once, am I right?" The darkness of another blush rising from Will's collar was answer enough. "Ah, I thought so. But mind, I've never taken a woman unwilling." It was an important point, and one he was very proud of, a definite indicator of character, by his estimation.

"You think I'd…!" Will stiffened, sputtering indignantly. "I would never…!" His mouth moved silently as he groped for words, finally opting for a cursory swipe of the hand. "Besides, once we're married, it doesn't matter."

"Ah! And therein lies your great lack in your education." Jack draped an arm over Will's shoulders, dramatically sketching a scene. "Imagine, William: you touch her one night, and she trembles. What do you do?"

Turner shrugged, his eyes shifting uncertainly, the answer seeming apparent enough; it might be a trick question. "She's cold."

"Ach! No!" Jack threw his hands skyward, his worst fears confirmed. From the start, such things had seemed obvious and natural to him, but clearly that wasn't the case for everyone. "Think man! Is she trembling with desire, or is she trembling because she's afraid?"

"Afraid!" Will jerked back, his eyes rounding with affront. "Why would she be afraid? I'd never hurt her…"

"Knowingly, no." It struck Jack that the lad had good instincts; a bit of prodding in the right direction, just to avoid the mistakes that might never be overcome, might be all that was necessary. "But William, tell me something: how many times have you said something that Elizabeth took entirely the wrong way, something that you had meant to be innocently pleasant, but she took differently, flew off the handle, she did, blowing it all out of proportion?"

"A few," Will admitted reluctantly, grimacing. "Well, all right, several."

"See! You can hurt them without even knowing; best intentions are not always rewarded." Jack signed lugubriously, momentarily wallowing in his own—albeit brief—miscalculations. He raised a hand, dropping it in helplessness. "Damnedest thing, but there you are. And she doesn't strike me as the sort to languish about when her blood is up."

Will struggled to hide a wry smile. "Hardly."

Jack meditatively looked down at his hands splayed on his legs."There are any numbers of ways to prepare a woman." Thoughtfully flexing his fingers, he shifted uncomfortably at the images that were triggered, the ones that came too often, too readily, too hauntingly.

"Meaning what, Jack?" Will tried to sound disinterested, but at the same time lean with the clean curiosity of youth; not a man over the age of thirteen hadn't spent considerable time puzzling over these very points.

"How do you know when that blade is ready for use?"

Will reeled back, blinking. "That's simple, by the feel." Jack waited expectantly for the fruition of his analogy, signaled by a widening of eyes and a slight dropping of Will's jaw. "You mean all I have to do is…?"

"Just because the sword's been drawn doesn't necessarily mean the blade is ready."

"Oh." Scowling, the younger's face clouded as he puzzled out what that meant. His head soon snapped up, a blush rising deep enough to be seen even in the half-light. "Oh!"

Jack nodded, pleased with Turner's quickness. "Try to remember we men need about as much time to prepare as undoing our belts. A woman needs longer…much longer. Be patient; give her time. Given the proper initiatives, a woman can have endurances that we men can only dream of."

"Endurance?" Will peered at him through one eye, afraid to hear.

"Once the pistol is fired, what do you have to do? Wait for the barrel to cool before you can reload, and fire again. A woman operates under no such restrictions."

"You mean she can…? Again…right after…?" Will snatched the bottle from Jack's hand and took a drink, gasping explosively at the end.

"And again," Jack said dreamily. "And again and again, given the proper provocations."

"So how…?" Turner began faintly, his voice roughened by the rum. "I mean, what…?"

"Pay attention. Learn!" Jack retrieved the bottle, tapping Turner on the arm for emphasis. "It's a simple thing for us men: put the ramrod in the barrel and fire! Treat her that way, and you'll be spending many a night staring at the ceiling. A well-treated woman can be a man's haven. Don't ever forget: A woman invites you to her bed; it's up to you to make the invitation worthwhile."

Jack paused to take another long drink, in the hopes of dissolving his own discomforts. "Treat her right, and even if you die the next day, you'll have a smile on your face."

Will raised a skeptical brow. "Is that why you're always so happy, Jack?"

Jack fell quiet, pensively rolling the bottle between his palms. "Could have something to do with it." Happiness. The lad didn't know the half of it. "Truth, William."

"Truth?" Will scoffed in disbelief, tucking a strand of hair that had blown loose behind his ear. "You're going to lecture me about truth? Isn't that a bit like asking honesty from a thief?"

Jack scowled, wading through a morass of muddled thoughts that had seemed to eloquently clear just a few seconds ago. "Not sure I see your point. I'm talking about truth. You can be anything to anyone—everyone—but to thine own self, be true."

Rolling his eyes Will groaned. "Now you're quoting the Bible?"

"You have to know where the difference lies, between what people see, and who you are."

Jack stopped abruptly to look around, thinking that perhaps that had been someone else talking. He scratched his head, wondering where that had come from. And yet, every word rang with significance.

"Elizabeth knows me." Turner posed with confidence, toying with the lace on his sleeve. "And I know her."

"Do you? Do you really know what lurks inside? What's she's capable of? What you're capable of? She's more like me than you, peas in a pod, mate. Make no mistake. Stop seeing what you want to see, and see what's to be seen."

"She hates pirates." He stiffened, his lip curling in disgust. "I know her. You can't bear to see two people that are everything you're not… that can be happy together."

"No, I can't bear to see two people on a collision course for despising both themselves and each other." Jack honestly wished the best for him. Everyone deserved happiness—not necessarily meaning that they would find it. He had serious reservations that Elizabeth was the right one for the whelp, but who was he to judge?

"You talk is if you don't think we should…"

Jack dismissed the thought with a wave of his bottle-bearing hand. "Nothing of the sort. But you can't live a lie, not for long, not forever. I don't mean to scourge your parade, but mark me, Elizabeth is more like me than you care to think. Be prepared for both surprises and disappointments, because there will be plenty."

"She wants nothing to do with pirates; once was enough." It was uttered in an almost chant, as if he were convincing himself, more than Jack.

Jack quietly laughed. "Saw the ugliness, and went scampering back to safety, did she?" It was a struggle not to be smug; his initial analysis, from over a year ago, had been very correct. "Stepped out of her protected little world, discovered how rough things were, and then ducked right back."

"You say that like it's an indictment." Turner's tension was visible, the muscles in his jaw rigid under the skin.

"No, not a'tall!" Jack declared with a grand sweep. "She's an intelligent girl…young woman," he quickly corrected at Will's glare, "who was smart enough to recognize that not all dreams are meant to be lived. She saw the beast that dwelt within and knew well enough that she should never unleash it. Seeing it, staring it in the face, knowing it's your own face staring back; 'tis not an easy matter."

"Neither of us wants anything to do with pirates," Turner said with increasing vehemence.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Jack began, turning to face Will more squarely, "but I seem to recall it was you with the blade at me throat, earlier. Pretty piratey move, to my way of thinking."

"I had no choice. I had to do something." Will ran an agitated hand through his hair. "I don't need your advice, and I certainly don't need your help." He shot a hate-filled look toward Jack's belt. "All I need is that bloody compass. I could do quite nicely without the rest."

"What a man can do, and what a man can't do, eh?" Jack saluted with the bottle, and took a drink, wiping is mouth on the back of his hand. "'Tis a fine line that you and your betrothed are walking. Just be prepared; your future, blushing bride is even more resourceful than you. There, kind sir," he said, shaking a warning finger, "is a woman that will stop at nothing."

"You make it sound like a curse."

"No, just nature. Elizabeth is spirited, resourceful, determined—those traits don't always know where to stop."

"She's no pirate," Will ground through his teeth.

Jack lifted the bottle to his mouth, but paused long enough to chuckle, before he took a drink. "We'll see."

Jack watched the lad from the corner of his eye, his foot still tapping the deck, his hand working until the cords bulged, all signs he was thinking. Jack sat back, content to wait.

"Granted, she was always fascinated by them; her whole life." The concession came, but not without a struggle. "But she's never wanted to be one. You think about women all the time, Jack. Does that mean that you want to become one?"

Grimacing, Jack shuddered. "Not bloody likely, but this is different. Treat her right, William."

"You said that," Will groaned and tiredly rubbing his face.

"Did I?" Jack made an effort to recall, but soon surrendered. "Wise point, to be sure."

Jack fell quiet, lapsing into a silty entanglement of misdeeds and misgivings. Rum didn't usually have such an effect, but he did feel himself growing more morose, his spirits sinking with the level of the rum.

"Take her away, someplace nice, away from all… this." Jack ended with a bleak gesture toward the immediate world. "Keep her safe."

With his head propped in his hands, Will swiveled it only enough to peep one eye over the edge. "She's locked up," he pointed out acerbically.

"Locked up. Locked up." Jack rolled the words in his mouth, savoring the though. "I could've tried that; don't think it would've worked. Come out from there like an enraged she-cat she would, tear me apart." He shrugged, shaking the thought away, and then shuddered, leaning from the imagined onslaught of wild green eyes and clawed fists.

"You're babbling."

Blinking, Jack scowled, mulling over Will's observation. "Maybe." He shook his head again, taking another drink in hopes of regaining his previous train of thought. Carrying a thought was becoming laborious.

It was the rum talking; he'd already said more than he had intended, and bit back the urge to say more. Fondling the piece of tattered lace knotted at his wrist, Jack wanted to tell Will that sleeping with the woman you love is the greatest pleasure and privilege any man could ever know. Bootstrap had told him that, and he considered the possibilities that Bill's offspring would want to know. Upon further consideration, however, experience was the better educator for many a thing.

"They are a treasure," Jack pressed on doggedly. "Try to curb that spirit—hold them down—and you're robbing them of the very thing you admired. She'll resent you for it, and you won't be caring for yourself much, either. "

"So, what do you suggest?"

"Whatever you can, which is saying a lot. Protect them from the ugliness, and keep them safe, no matter what the cost. Your father knew that; he tried to protect you and your mother, from all of this."

Turner was the one to fall quiet now. With eyes gone distant, he looked toward the water, seeing things far beyond the night.

"I wish I could have known him." Will's hoarse whisper was filled with longing.

Jack bit his lip, rolling his eyes. "Death might not be the only alternative, and certainly not as final as we might be led to believe."

Turner leaped up and began pacing, pivoting sharply on his boot heel at each turn. At length, he halted before Jack, drawing himself to full height and stabbing a finger in Jack's face. "You know something… something you're not telling me."

Jack shrugged, complacently examining his nails. "Maybe. I'm not at liberty to say… completely."

"Then, he's alive?" Will sagged at the impact of that.

Squinting, Jack weighed his answer. "Not entirely."

"But you just said he's not dead."

"In the purest sense of the word, no." It had been a slip, a small one, but one Jack hadn't intended to make… at least he didn't think so.

"Which is it, Jack? You have to tell me. Is he in trouble?" Will's agitation grew, his hand coming to rest once again on the hilt of his sword, as he commenced to pace again. "Is there some way I can save him? Where is he? Don't tell me you've chosen now to suddenly be honorable!"

Jack felt caught in a dilemma. Had he been in Turner's position, if it were his own father gone missing, he would have moved mountains to find him, and would have thoroughly resented—and sought retribution—against anyone who had kept such knowledge from him.

He was also painfully aware of Bill's dubious status. Bootstrap had been but a shadow of his former self when he had seen him last. No man would want to be seen, most particularly by his estranged son, in such a state of humiliation. Divulging Bill's secret would be to rob the man of his last few shreds of dignity, and that being the only thing the man had left.

Still, he felt caught between his lifelong friendship with Bill, and the budding friendship—if that is what one could call something so contentious—with Bill's offspring. Years ago, while celebrating the birth of said son, the two men had made a pledge to always care for the other's children, if something inopportune were to come to pass for either of them. It had been a one-sided agreement, as far as Jack had been able to see; children—his own children, ones to be concerned about, at any rate—were highly unlikely, in his estimation. But Bill already had a son, and Jack had made a solemn promise.

"You know where he is already." Jack trolled the suggestion past Turner, waiting.

"Chained, at the bottom of the sea…" Will nearly choked on that hopeless vision.

"Only one place to go from there." Swaying, Jack waited expectantly. "Think, Master William."

Knuckles white on the rail, Will dropped his head, shoulders hunched as he struggled to sort it out. At last, his head came up and he turned. "The _Dutchman_? He's on the _Flying Dutchman_."

Jack tipped an acknowledging salute with the bottle, and took a celebratory drink. "The words never crossed me lips. It's not the sort of thing a man would want advertised about. Not so sure about Jones' mood on the subject, either." It was a sobering thought, but not a vexing one. He sported little concerned about Jones' preferences, but there was no doubt that Jones didn't seem the sort to appreciate advertisement.

"But why wouldn't he want me to know?" The question was motivated by the fears of a young boy, afraid to learn his affections might be rejected, his valorous urges shunned.

Jack peered warily through one eye. "Perhaps he fears some hair-brained scheme on your part."

"Nonsense!" Will off-handedly dismissed the thought. "If I can save him…"

The point was obviously lost; Turner was already caught up in heroic machinations. Jack couldn't blame him, nor could he say he was surprised. Given what was given, more surprising would have been if the lad hadn't gone off half-cocked—not that he would know of such matters himself. He did feel a level of sympathy-laden compassion for someone so determined to fool himself into thinking good intentions could prevail. How could he ever explain that folly in the face of youthful abandon?

"Exactly what, William?" He glared into Will's erratic eyes. "Exactly what do you think you're going to do?"

"Save him! I can save him! Tach!" Will swiped angrily at the air. "What do you care? You have no idea what it is to not have a father, to barely remember his face." His eyes were as filled with hurt as his voice was ragged with it.

Slowly rolling his eyes closed, Jack looked away, taking his time before he felt strong enough to control his own emotions. "I know more than I care to recall."

Will drew to a halt, towering over Jack, the lad's body shaking with fury. "If there is one shred of decency in that miserable black heart of yours…"

"I'd what?" A surge of anger cleared the fog from his head as he looked up. "Send you to your doom? That's what it would mean; is that what you want?"

"Bloody, buggering hell!" Will spun away, beseeching the sky. "I can't wait to get off this bloody ship!!"

"That can be arranged!!" Jack announced, lurching up, stabbing a finger into Will's chest. "Be careful what you wish for, dear William. Things have a nasty way of coming true."

Swearing, Turner stalked off.

"Don't worry, darling." Jack said, lovingly stroking the _Pearl's_ rail. "He didn't mean it; we'll be rid of him tomorrow."


	29. Chapter 29 Mr Gibbs! We Have Our

**Chapter Twenty-nine: "Mr. Gibbs, we have our heading!"**

**Pacing** the decks, Jack silently berated himself as he oversaw the final preparations for the _Black Pearl_ to push away from Tortuga's dock.

Elizabeth Swann was aboard. There was any number of things wrong with that statement. A galling necessity it was, but that small point barely made it bearable.

And then, there was her ex-fiancé, her bloody friend Norrington. Now there's a reconciliatory scene he would loved to have witnessed.

Oddly odd, that those two would show up at the same place, at the same time. Odder than odd was Norrington's failure at the Faithful Bride, to mention Elizabeth's being about. Oh, the tangled webs!

But what other choice had there been? If Elizabeth were standing there on the dock, then she had been looking for him; no amount of denial or excuses would erase that small fact. Easy enough to assume she was looking to use him, if past practice were any indication.

He couldn't just leave her alone in Tortuga; she may have deserved it, but he didn't fancy that he was that cruel, at least he didn't think so. She was, however, the last person he wanted, or needed, to have about. Yet and still, he couldn't leave her there, with that wretched Norrington retching over her shoulder.

_Definitely going to have to put a double lock on the rum. Next thing you know, she'll be setting fire to the ship._

Anyway, with Elizabeth's hand on the compass, they had a bearing. No choice about it, the bloody compass would only work for her. The thing seemed to be harboring some kind of a grudge against him. It must have been something he said. _Figured!_ _Worse than a woman!_

Rest assured, however, where there was the _Flying Dutchman_, there would be her beloved betrothed. And where said beloved might be, Jones, and the key wouldn't be far off. Easy enough! Something for everyone, to his mind. _Down right bloody fair, I'd say_!

After? Well… those things had a way of working out. After all, Turner's quest was already complete; he had his father. No worries there. What else could go wrong?

On a matter even more oddly odd, by means that Jack was hesitant to contemplate, Elizabeth was free from the jail in which Young Turner had claimed her to be. _How did that come to pass?_

Beckett. Ah, yes! The treacherous and the treacheress. Hmm… the mind reeled with the levels of diabolicalness there. It would be interesting to know who had been the most successful at using whom, in that little tête-à-tête.

Any way he looked at it, for the next while, a firm hand was going to be needed, in order to maintain an upper hand.

As he entered his cabin, Jack skidded to a halt at finding Elizabeth staring out the gallery. There had been a time when he had seen a similarity between she and K… _her_. At the moment, he didn't know what the bloody hell he'd been thinking. Granted, there was a carriage, a spirit about her, but beyond that…

Too boy-like in breeches and a shirt, hair pulled back in a tight braid, Elizabeth wore her sword with disquieting confidence. One could assume that would answer several questions regarding how she and Young William had been filling their time for the last few months.

There had been an even more awkward moment earlier that evening, when he had found Elizabeth sitting on the boxes stacked at the f'c'stle, an array of alarmed looks from the crew following him as he scurried up the deck, Gibbs' eyes bulging to the point of fit to explode. Taking the steps two at a time, he flapped a hand behind his back, waving everyone away. _I'll handle this!_

With a mute nod and a tentative smile, he perched next to Elizabeth, taking satisfaction in seeing her slip sideways. It was quiet for a time, as they played a furtive game of eye tag, each one daring a glance, darting away the moment the other did the same.

Elizabeth meditatively fondled the compass, now tethered at her belt. Jack fought the urge to snatch the thing back. He allowed himself the momentary pleasure of imagining her opening it, and the thing would go spinning off, as it had done been doing to him for the last months. Just to see her momentarily denied was a savory thought. He watched longingly as her fingers stroked the smoothness, lovingly recalling the elation of when the thing used to work for him. _Story of me life._

Finally, she heaved a pain-laden sigh. "I miss Will; it's been months since I've seen him."

"Is your gallant off conquering dragons?"

She rolled an irritable eye. "No, just pirates."

"And left you—his beloved betrothed—behind in jail. Not exactly the greatest act of chivalry." He shifted, inching closer, Elizabeth, sliding away in response.

"It wasn't his fault," she shot back.

Jack made a derisive noise in his throat, shaking his head. "Never is."

"Will is doing what he can." Her grip tightened on the black box, her knuckles going white.

Jack cocked a knowing eye. "As are we all, darling." He leaned forward ostensibly to better see her face, the effect being that she moved a bit more, now on the very edge. "Are we not?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"No, I suppose not," said Jack, shrugging off her annoyance. "Innocence is so much more convenient," he purred, taunting.

Sputtering in indignation, Elizabeth leaped to her feet. "Good night!" Tossing her head to punctuate her displeasure, the braid bounced on her back as she stalked off.

Slumping with relief, Jack heaved his own sigh. _Phew! Managed that well enough._

Trundling down the steps, he jerked a thumb to Gibbs, where he had had been lurking near one of the guns, and then over his shoulder at the boxes. "Stow those—now!" he growled, and kept going without looking back.

Now, squared off in his cabin with Elizabeth, Jack nodded a brief acknowledgment, and went about busying himself with his log, charts and the hourglass. He felt rather than saw her come closer, but pointedly ignored her. She drooped with exhaustion; God knew what she had been through getting that far. A part of him said he should offer her his bunk, but another—decidedly stronger—resisted, passionately defensive of that small space.

"How long do you suppose, until we get wherever it is that we're going?" Her voice was scratchy with fatigue, the light casting deep shadows in the hollows of her eyes.

The question wasn't as difficult as he pretended it to be, dramatically rolling his eyes as he strained to estimate. "Not knowing exactly where we are going could put a bit of a hindrance on me estimations. Judging by the heading…"

In illustration, he had laid the parallels across the chart and walked off the increments, pointing at the landmasses the rhumb line intersected. "Could be any of these dozen or so islands along there. Or, beyond."

"Beyond?" Weariness and frustration took her to the verge of tears.

"That way could be…" He closed one eye, visualizing. "The Florida Straits, Florida itself, Gulf of Mexico, and then the continent."

"All that?" she said faintly, scanning the chart more closely.

He felt a sudden compulsion to try to soften the blow. "In all probability, one could eliminate the continent; Jones has reasons not to fancy land." He made sure there was the right amount of lechery in his voice as he went on. "Could be a long trip, and you look tired. Care to step into my cabin?" He ended with an invitational flourish of one hand.

"No thank you." She stiffened, a bit of her usual fire returning to the uncharacteristically dull eyes. "I've already heard quite enough regarding your cabin."

Jack sighed silently, smiling. _Well, that's one way to keep her out of there._

"Anytime," he murmured, sweeping a bow. "I'll be at your beck and call." _Careful, mate. You're spreading it on just a bit thick._

"I'll have Gibbs find me a hammock," called Elizabeth over her shoulder as she made to leave.

Jack caught her up, snagging her by the arm to pull her to a halt. "No," he warned, with a slight bearing of teeth. "_I'll_ have Gibbs find you a hammock. Captain, remember?"

Elizabeth jerked free, rubbing her arm as if to erase his touch. "Too clearly," she growled and stalked off, satisfyingly rigid as her boots pounded the deck.

Jack watched her, unable to quell the admiration that welled up. _She is a fascination. A vixen in sheep's clothing, to be sure. But one had to admire her grit, getting all the way to Tortuga by herself. God only knows what she did… and who she used._

He wondered how far he could push her; she was so ready for the picking.

_No, belay that. No one pushes her anywhere._

_Then, pull? How's that?_

_More intriguing by the minute, mate._

_ *************_

**"I think there's more speed to be coaxed from these sails! "**

**Sails** sufficiently braced to meet his discriminating tastes, the _Pearl_ pressing faster through the water; Gibbs ducked into the main cabin, looking for further orders. He found Jack in his chair, hunched over the table. As Gibbs drew near, he could see the leather pouch Miss Elizabeth had revealed earlier laying on the table between his elbows.

"Cap'n." Gibbs stopped across the table, waiting for whatever was to come next. With Jack about, he found it wiser not to attempt to forecast.

"Letters of Marque, Gibbs," Jack said without preamble, pensively fingering the pouch's worn leather. The hopeful lilt in his voice left Gibbs goggling in disbelief.

"Surely yer not thinkin' o' signin' that thing? Taking the Company's coin is no life."

"Not my name," Jack was quick to correct, with a slight frown. "But s_omeone_ else's."

"Mr. Kate?" Gibbs gaped then cringed, realizing his blunder of uttering her name. "You mean _her_?"

Too preoccupied to do more than rise a warning brow, Gibbs' error went unnoticed. "With that, she would have her life back, all charges dropped."

"But, treason?" Gibbs was thoroughly dubious of the King's willingness to overlook a crime of that magnitude.

Jack unwound the thong and thumbed open the document. "Full pardon," he read from the parchment then flattened it with his palm. "I could give her at least that." He turned his head to look through the gallery windows, but seemed to be seeing something far beyond. "Only be one other small matter. After that, she would have everything she ever wanted."

Gibbs couldn't begin to speculate what that one thing could possibly be; to his recollection, he couldn't remember Mr… _her_ ever voicing a desire for anything.

"But, what about Jones?"

"Jones?" Jack snorted, waving away Gibbs' concern. "Trifles. We have our bearing; we'll make Isla de Cruces tomorrow. We'll find the heart, and Jones will have no choice but to comply. I'll have me life back—with insurance—and be free."

Gibbs frowned. Following the Cap'n's line of reasoning was always a strain, but he had taken on a particularly circuitous nature of late. "So, ye'll sign that… in _her_ name?"

Jack resolutely shook his head, his fingers tapping the paper. "No, not yet. If I sign her name now, anyone who sees it will know about her. For now, I need to keep it blank. Leverage, Gibbs." He mouthed the word as if it were a fine rum, a spark lighting his eyes that Gibbs knew well. "We've several fugitives from justice lurking about that might well be willing to do nigh on to anything to get this. That could prove quite valuable."

"Even if that means Miss Elizabeth going to jail... bein' hung?"

"Little danger of that," scoffed Jack, leaning back in his chair.

"But she…"

"Most certainly has some variety of agreement with our dear Lord Beckett," Jack interjected with all confidence. "Else she would not have been toddling free about the Caribbean. Mark me, Gibbs, there were choices to be made, and I'll wager that she has made hers. Now, I'll make mine."

*****************

**Jack **blinked; the heavy thud of footsteps on the planks overhead jerked him out of his trance. Grimacing at the ache of muscles locked in one position for too long he looked for the sun to check the time, only to discover it was blocked by the curtains of the sleeping quarters. Moving stiffly, something hard bumped his leg, and he looked down to find the neck of a half-empty bottle clutched in his fist.

Roughly rubbing his face with the empty hand, he tried to recall anything: drinking, entering, or more importantly, how long he had been there.

The empty room was a chilling stab, and yet he was drawn there, like a moth to a flame. He dimly noticed it was a shaky hand that he reached to the small pillow, to lightly trace the indentation of where a head had nested so many months ago. Why hadn't he ever gotten another one… one for her?

It was too easy to imagine her still there, his hand curling slightly as it recalled her warm shape. Other parts of him recalled other shapes too eagerly, and he rose abruptly and left. Stopping at the table in the salon, he took a drink, hoping to wash the powerful yearnings away. It barely worked. With ghosts hard on his heels, he burst from the shadowy cabin, squinting in the startling blaze of the afternoon sun.

With no particular thought, but to separate himself as far as possible from everything behind him, Jack brushed roughly past several crewmen then drew up sharp, realizing he was heading for the f'c'stle. Nothing was there for him either, nothing that would help, at any rate.

Grumbling under his breath, he turned to find Elizabeth slumped on the quarterdeck gangway. Forlorn didn't begin to describe the look she wore.

_What the hell!_ Surely he could find some distraction there. For most of the day, they had been orbiting each other like two opposing bodies, one using the simplicity of his presence to repel the other, if for no other reason than to antagonize—and a bit of a distraction from the boredom.

"I'm so ready to be married."

He cringed, instinctively recoiling at the very mention of the word. _On the other hand, opportune moments and all. Marriage? Why not? A temporary institution, a man-made thing, really, made to be broken by a man._ It was only one of the benefits of being Captain Jack Sparrow; flirting came as natural as a bird to the sky, asking him to not would be tantamount to clipping his wings.

"Lizzie..." He cleared his throat, bracing to dodge the swipe of her sword. He offered the suggestion as a joke, to keep her off-guard, but his blessed traitorous body was betraying him in every sense of the word.

Hours of nothing on a ship set the mind to wandering—sometimes in specific directions. More specifically, it was his body that was fancying specifics, his mind simply supplying the sufficient images of bare arms, and long legs to be indulged upon.

He had tried to break these enticing thoughts by gloating over Norrington's pathetic plight, but those were joys of the mind, and were quickly—too quickly—giving way to musings of the flesh. The mouths of the whores purchased in Tortuga had certainly given him ease, but with Elizabeth flaunting about in naught but britches, the scandalous sight of the division of her legs, that went all the way to... there, well, what was a man to do?

_Breeches? It is a bit disquieting, come to that. Cuts more boy, she does, than lass._

_The goods know! There was no fooling them._ Lusting was what it was, pure and simple.

He slapped the thoughts down, fervently substituting Kate's delicious curves. _There, I said it! Kate! Kate! Kate!_

No amount of men's clothing, or other means of obfuscation could ever disguise Kate's luscious ampleness. She exuded womanhood; she knew what a man was for, and knew _very_ well how to give him said need. In a moment of magnanimity—and admittedly stupidly—he contemplated offering Kate as a tutor in _les arts de la joie_.

Kate and Elizabeth in the same room. He shuddered._ Not bloody likely!_ _Too bad, Turner. You have no idea what you're missing—what you almost had._

Elizabeth possessed a spirit that he recognized, not unlike himself. Single-minded, rebellious and resourceful, the pirate lurked in her. He saw it from the day she stood on the plank in naught but a shift, and defied Barbossa. Wide-eyed and childish she was, eager to believe the tales she had heard and read, as if pirate were a child's game, where the players leaped about with sticks for swords, and bananas for pistols, a game in which the worst injury would be a dunt on the head.

_You're no man, Elizabeth, so stop trying to make like one. You're a woman; use it, swing it like that bloody sword of yours, and make everyone pay heed._

"I do want to know what it tastes like." _Was that me?_ _Usually have a better hold on a thought that that! _Things were spinning out of control a little too fast.

Lizzie's suggestion was too fantastic to imagine. He'd never allowed himself to fancy the possibility, not anymore, not after so much. Respect. Rewards. A taste of the good life, a taste of the good life for Kate?

_Leave it, mate. Can't carry both of them in your head at once. Don't want the two of them getting that close to each other, under any circumstances._

Falling back into the old ways was too easy. Old habits die hard. Every fiber screamed "No!" while every bone screamed "Why not?" It was an internal argument he had thought he was well past. He needed to explain to the lads that it was a new day. _We don't go chasing every skirt… er, breeches._

"… to act on selfish impulse…One of these days, you won't be able to resist…. to take what you want, because you want it…."

_Ah, so you want to be a pirate, eh? Welcome to my world!_

"I'm proud of you Jack."

Groaning, he ran a shaky hand down his face as Elizabeth stalked away. _That was too close!_ They had been dueling for the upper hand, but it was entirely possible it hadn't been his on top—almost being on top of several things that shouldn't even be considered.

Seized by a painful stiffness that rendered walking nearly impossible, Jack resisted the urge to ease an extreme discomfort. Topping the steps, Jack came directly into Gibbs' toad-like glower. "What?" Jack demanded, instantly aware of how defensive that sounded.

"Ye shouldn't be vexing the maid," Gibbs hissed.

"That's no maid," retorted Jack over his shoulder, moving to the rail.

"She's betrothed." Gibbs' sudden predisposition with propriety was almost laughable.

"Betrothed to be sure, but being engaged, and having been engaged are two entirely different matters." Jerking his shoulders, Jack irritably drummed his fingers on his belts. "Check the baskets, because that flower has already been picked."

"How do you...?"

Jack rolled his eyes, growing more annoyed by the moment at having to explain himself. "I think we both know the 'how of it.' Don't play coy, Gibbs. You can tell as well as I. That is a girl—woman, young woman," he qualified quickly, "that knows what she's missing, and knows that what she wants she's supposed to be not wanting. I was given to believe otherwise, but make no mistake."

Gibbs glanced furtively toward the deck below, where Elizabeth was deep in conversation with Norrington. _Now there's a cozy sight!_

There was no danger of her overhearing anything, but Gibbs hunched closer anyway. "Surely yer not considerin'..."

"_Considerin_' what?" Jack shot back. Spinning around, he spread his arms. "Why not? I'm a man. She's a woman... almost. There is a vast marked and significant difference between the mind and the body: the mind has a conscious; the body does not.

"But, doin' somethin'..." Gibbs arched his brows, making his concerns and reservations quite clear.

"Master Gibbs, surely by now, in your advanced years, you know that it is entirely possible to put smiles on two people's faces without anyone 'doin' somethin''', he mocked, pacing. "It's a small matter of a meeting of the spirits, that's all."

"Not quite sure how _others_ might be seein' that." Gibbs was meticulous in not naming names, but his implications were crystalline.

Groaning, Jack dropped his chin to his chest. A conscious was one thing; having someone stalking about, reminding of said conscious was too much to bear. He snatched the spyglass from the binnacle and turned back to the rail. "_Others_ will see it just fine, because I will have _done_ nothing."

"I dunno." Gibbs shook lugubriously shook his head. "Might could be a bit dicey negotiatin' that one."

"Yet and still, there is no recrimination, because no one has done anything. Now, Master Gibbs, tend your duties, sir."

*************

**"...I want my jar of dirt!..."**

**Jack** looked up expectantly from his writing when Gibbs drew up at the cabin's table.

"Reportin' the anchor's set and the boats are ready away, Cap'n." Gibbs folded his hands behind his back, and waited. With the _Pearl_ standing off Isla de Cruces, it stood to reason that there would be further orders.

Tia Dalma's jar of dirt at his elbow, Jack vaguely nodded, paying more attention to the task before him. He thoughtfully tapped his finger on the parchment that lay on the table, appearing to be deciding if there was anything further. Decision made, he signed it with his usual flourish, and then moved to the desk, where he went through the ritual of sanding, folding with meticulous care, and then sealing it with wax, plunging his ring into the soft goo with finality.

Straightening, Jack's face was unusually troubled, and drew several breaths, before he finally spoke. "I'm prepared to concede, Gibbs, just between you and me, that matters might not necessarily go full to plan.

Gibbs nearly choked. "Cap'n?"

"That being the case," Jack pressed on, blithely ignoring Gibbs' startlement. "I… I have a favor to ask." He hesitated, struggling. "I ask it as a friend, Gibbs, because if it shall come to pass, I shan't be in a position to ask it of you as anything else."

His face darkening, Jack caressed the letter, and then reluctantly thrust it into Gibbs' hand. "If you could give this to _her_… It's nothing special," he added with a casual wave, clearing his throat, and looking away. "Just a few thoughts… things I never quite got around to saying." He grimaced at that.

"Jack," Gibbs croaked. "I've never known ye to give up…"

"Not giving up," Jack quickly interrupted, squaring his shoulders, resuming only a vague semblance of his usual nonchalance. "I've still a few tricks, options up me sleeve. But, one does have to consider the alternatives, at least once in a great while."

Gibbs had no personal knowledge—well, maybe one time, there for a bit—but it was his experience from watching others that there was a price a man paid for bringing a woman in his life: responsibility, the need to make plans beyond one's own welfare. There was a strange smell about the room: fallibility, the willingness to admit to the possibility of failure. Never in his days had he thought to find it there, but there it was.

Gibbs carefully took the proffered paper. "So, yer thinkin'…?"

"I'm thinking forewarned is forearmed. I learned long ago, Gibbs, that to be prepared can be the greatest preventative." He cracked one of his all-too familiar smiles, although dimmed of its usual brilliance and charm by uncertainty. "In all probability, by tonight we'll be burning that, and toasting to our new partner."

"Jones?"

Jack shrugged glibly. "Find the heart, and the rest goes without being said. You'll be remaining aboard, to take care of the _Pearl_, and that, too." He patted Gibbs' shirt, where the letter had just been stuffed inside. "Most especially that."

"Aye, I'll about do it, sir, and be proud in the doin'."

Jack did seem relieved. As he moved around the table, he did seem more relaxed, but still preoccupied by something weighing even more heavily. Gibbs watched as he paced for several moments, never really seeing any of the things as he picked them up, and put them down.

"I've another... request... Josh."

The change in Jack's voice was alarming. It was a rare moment; this was man-to-man, friend-to-friend. The sentiment had always been there between them, but it was a rare thing for Jack to prevail upon it.

"Aye..." Gibbs gulped, sobering. "Jack."

"If any... with all this." Jack waved a vague hand, indicating everything involving the last few months, and what was shortly to come. He paused, summoning the resolve to continue. "Anything were to... happen..."

He left Gibbs to fill in the rest. He took a deep breath, clearly worried about what he was about to say, and more importantly, Gibbs' reaction. "If it were... to come to pass..." He groped for words, ultimately opting to allow the thought to finish for itself. "I'd like Kate... Mr. Kate... _her_," he stammered. "I'd like her to have the _Pearl_," he finally surrendered, the last pouring out in a rush.

Gibbs goggled, his mouth sagging. "But, Jack..."

"I know! Believe me, I know. But I need your assurances that you'll help her. Heaven help the man that tries to tell her she can't do something," he said, rolling his eyes. "But she can't manage this, not alone. I need to know you'd stand by her, keep the crew in line, and keep the _Pearl _for her."

Gibbs shifted uneasily. This was tantamount to a last will and testament, being made the captain, but with one significant difference: Jack was handing him his two most precious treasures.

"If I can't do anything else," sighed Jack, "the least I can do is give her a home. It's the one thing she truly wants, other than…"

"Other than what?" Before, he had been willing to overlook Jack's allusions, but if he were to be responsible, then he would be needing to know.

Jack winced, idly spinning the dividers on the table. "Be prepared to help her find Brian."

"Her husband?" Gibbs blinked, bewildered. "I thought he was dead."

"Been listening to her, haven't you?" There was a pained irony in that. "She doesn't know for sure; a hunch certainly is no evidence. I've seen a lot of strange things in me years, Gibbs. Someone coming back from the dead is a small matter."

Gibbs couldn't argue. Given the distances a sailor traveled and the time it took to travel them, the chaos of battle and the vagaries of word of mouth, he had witnessed many a man to come back from the world beyond.

"I had promised her that I'd do it meself, until all this came to pass." That admission came with additional effort. "Before now, she had no help, no way of knowing. Between you, the crew and the _Pearl_… well, who knows? She might actually find a little piece of the life she used to have."

Gibbs couldn't help but wonder what in all that was holy could prompt Jack into such considerations "Some day, Jack, that good heart is going to get you killed."

Jack snorted. "Certainly hope not." Narrowing one eye, he shook a scolding finger at Gibbs. "And under no circumstances do I want that bandied about. Now, will you do it?" Wholly aware of the magnitude of what he was asking, the request was laced with strained hopefulness.

"Aye." Gibbs clapped Jack on the shoulder, and gave him a fatherly shake. "Consider it done."

Given the gravity of the moment, and the pledges made, a handshake hardly seemed sufficient. In a flash of magnamity, Gibbs jerked out his flask.

Jack smiled faintly, recognizing the significance of the gesture and took the proffered leather vessel, holding it up in a salute. "Here's to unnecessary plans left forgotten."

"Aye!"


	30. Chapter 30: Reckonings

**Chapter Thirty: Reckonings**

**Jack** dug deep with every stroke of the oars. The muscles in his shoulders and forearms burned, but he doggedly kept up the pace, striving to get as far from the _Black_ _Pearl _and Jones' blessed beastas possible, as quickly as possible. Panic was an inspiring asset.

_I'm the one you want, you ruddy beast! Figures Jones would have a pet so wretchedly stupid!_

It would seem Jones knew what he had always known: he and the _Pearl_ were one. If Jones wanted his entire soul, then he would have to take the _Black Pearl_, too. He didn't remember his ship being a part of the bargain. Leave it to Jones to change the terms. What else could be expected from a man with tentacles for a face who, spent his days waiting for people to die?

The chaos on the _Pearl_ echoed across the water, gunshots and dying screams, the sinuous arms of the monster twining over his ship. Sagging breathlessly at the oars, Jack wondered if jumping into the water would draw the blasted monster away.

Probably not.

If he could save his ship, save Gibbs and the crew, then Kate would have a life. She would be safe. It was all he ever wanted, but it would seem even that small bit was too much to ask. Jones was going to deny him even that morsel of victory.

So what was it to be, keep rowing, or jump in? It would be much better, if he could make the island, and distract the thing.

Or…?

Desperate, he flipped open his compass, and his heart sank, chilled by what he already knew to be true, the needle swinging unerringly around to his ship.

_Bloody, frigging hell! Why does the thing suddenly decide to start working now? _

_You know why._

Cursing the Fates, Destiny, Providence, Jones and anyone or anything else he could think of—including himself, for a brief moment—he came about, the return trip being made with equal speed and haste. This wasn't going to be a thing to be done halfway. All or nothing; anything in between would wreak nothing but failure.

_Bloody right thing to do, and you know it!_

_The hell with the right thing; there are other things that matter more than that. Do what you must, to get what you want, remember?_

_It would seem you're at cross- purposes._

_Story of me life! Now, either shut up and help row, or I'll let that bloody beast take you instead!_

**_ Aye! Abandon ship, and abandon all hope._**

**Jack** trailed his hand along the capstan, staring thoughtfully across the decks strewn with wreck and ruin. She had fought hard; a lesser ship would have succumbed, but not his _Pearl_. She was a creature of the sea; Jones leviathan would come as no great shock.

_It's over, me darling. But this time, I'm going with you._ _No recrimination. No remorse._

_I love you, Kitty._

He never said it, but surely she knew. How could she not, it was so obvious? The first night in his cabin, her tears soaking his shirt, he had known then where he would be spending the rest of his days. Little did he know how brief that time was going to be.

And now...?

There were things left unsaid that should have been. _All things considered, perhaps best not. Bells that couldn't be unrung, and all that._

It pained him that he hadn't done better by her, at least spare his ship, leaving her some kind of a legacy, some mark that he had passed through her life. It would have done him well to know his two ladies would be together, one dark, one fair. When Kate stroked the rail, perhaps his heart would feel it. After all it was one and the same. Maybe, somehow, she could manage to reach through whatever void that separated them, and he could know that she was well.

Bill had managed to come to the _Pearl_, which meant there was a door, somewhere. Surely somehow, someway, he could arrange to see both his ladies. He slapped away the horrors of Bill's shattered visage. Well, for sure a one-way visit, if that was going to be the way of it; he certainly wouldn't allow Kate to see him that way.

For all the time he had spent running, avoiding the unavoidable, he hadn't paused to fully consider the finer details: what was the beast's purpose, death, retribution… humiliation? All things considered, death seemed the more appealing option. But then, once on the _Flying Dutchman_, he imagined there would always be the possibility of escape. He'd done it once, why not again? Unlike then, now he was eloquently familiar with Jones' vulnerabilities, more tools with which to manipulate. Bootstrap, Tia Dalma, a heart, Jones himself… there were any number of possibilities there.

By the sound of it from behind him, he judged Gibbs was away. There had been no time, but Gibbs would know his charge; he would be there to watch over her. Kate was the most capable person—man or woman—he had ever met, but she would still need help. This world was still a cruel one, with Beckett still about, and he had done blessed little to advance her station.

For the briefest of moments, he wished he had brought Kate, so that she could be there now, so that he could say good-bye properly. All things considered, he had to concede that what had to be done had been far easier to do without her there; knowing that she was safe was his only consolation. Setting her adrift in a lifeboat wouldn't have come easy, most especially with Lizzie there. It was an uncomfortable picture to imagine those two in a longboat together.

He smiled.

There would have been hell to pay to make Kate leave the _Pearl_. She'd want to stay, and heaven help the man that tried to tell her "No." But, oh for just that one last kiss, to allow those green eyes into his soul just one last time. Ghosts, spirits, haunts and wraiths; he had witnessed many tales that could lead one to conclude that death was but a temporary inconvenience. In that line of thinking, maybe there would be a way back after all.

His head dropped, gasping at the cold shock of never seeing her again. Just to kiss her, once more. Would that be such a great thing to ask?

"Thank you, Jack."

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine that it was Kate. He turned slowly, knowing full well it wasn't, but still harbored a thin shred of hope, that by some miracle...

"We're not out of this yet, darling."

_Couldn't the lass do anything simple? Just get off the bloody ship! You have your precious Will. Go live your lives._

Suddenly, Elizabeth seemed more fragile and vulnerable than he had ever imagined possible. Had he been wrong about her, after all this? Had he misjudged her awkward flirtations?

Then she kissed him, with lips that knew what they were for, driving him back with unexpected passion.

_Lucky man, Will._

He closed his eyes, and for a fraction allowed himself to imagine that she was Kate, a cruel, but well-earned joke, on someone who was trying desperately to be so seductive. Elizabeth lacked Kate's sweetness; no fires were sparked, but at least he could die with the feel of a woman's kiss on his lips.

The cold steel and final ratchet of the manacle was sobering, jerking him to reality. Ah, the bitterness on her lips had been the taste of betrayal. So that was her game; peas in a pod, indeed. She had learned her lessons well, having been taught by the best. It was injurious to his pride that Elizabeth would rob him of meeting his end on his own terms, but a testimony to his success at deception.

"Pirate."

"I'm not sorry."

_Good for that, darling. Never be sorry. Remorse only feeds on remorse. Don't ever hang your head._

Ambitious, seductive and calculatingly cold; it was a deadly combination. She'll go far, and probably never understand why she's alone at the end of the journey.

_Good luck, Will. You'll be needing the protection of every saint man ever thought to create._

It was an interesting commentary that she would wait to kiss him, until he was shackled to the mast. Perhaps wisely so.

It was a feeble and desperate move, an unnecessary treachery, impulsive and poorly thought, however he couldn't hold that against her. One shout and Gibbs would be there in a heartbeat. And then what would her precious remorse get her?

So, this was what she thought of him: tethered to a mast like a worm on a hook. Blessed wench was robbing him of everything. If she didn't understand the insult, she should. All any man could ask for is to die on his own terms. He'd stood the gallows more than once, facing the consequences of his actions with no excuse. He'd do the same now, thank you very much!

The deck rumbled, and the _Pearl _shuddered.

_It's time._

**The** _Black Pearl's_ longboat, a tragic remnant of a great lady, made land just at dusk. Bearing toward Isla de Cruces, the only refuge known, no one was of a mind to spend the night bobbing about on open waters.

Gibbs cringed at the sound of the screaming ship and she was drug to the depths.

He blenched at the thought of telling Mr. Kate. There was no way around it—she had to be told. I t had to be done.

He exchanged glances with Ragetti and Pintel. Cotton was seated behind him, but he could hear he and Marty thinking—they were all of the same mind. They all knew their duty now: to the man, they knew that their captain's final wish would have been: Mr. Kate, and to the man, they accepted their charge.

Odd, the Cap'n didn't at least have a final word for him, nothing person, but his final wishes, at least. But then, there were no doubts to be had. No need to rechart old waters. Gibbs knew… to the man, they knew.

He looked toward Miss Elizabeth, expecting some kind of an explanation as to what might have happened on deck, what might have been said, but she only sat with her head down, only able to watch the demise of the _Black Pearl_ in furtive glances.

Something wasn't right. Not the Cap'n going down with his ship; he would have expected nothing less. Something else... bad blood.

Something wasn't right.

Other than the quiet grunt of the oarsmen, the journey had been made in silence, each person mired in his own thoughts, murmuring their own benedictions to what they had seen. Once ashore, everyone set to the duties with no more than the minimal words: gathering firewood, finding fresh water, foraging for edibles or fashioning a spear for fishing.

Miss Elizabeth and Turner were like compasses set head to head, veering away from each other, dodging each other's looks with a fervor the likes of which Gibbs not seen since the Cap'n and Mr. Kate, in their early days. Seeings how they were betrothed, he had fully expected a certain amourness in the air, perhaps sneaking off ostensibly for a moonlit stroll. But, nothing, the tension between them spreading like a contagion among them all.

Ordinarily, the demise of a comrade would have initiated a night of eulogies and reminiscences around the fire. But that night, they paid their respects in silence. It struck Gibbs that they all seemed of a mind that, if none of them spoke of it, then maybe it didn't happen; to talk about it was to acknowledge the stunning loss. Even Cotton's bird had gone mum.

One by one, they curled up in the sand, and feigned sleep. Gibbs found every time he closed his eyes, he could see the horrors of the day as fresh as if they were happening again. Put a chill to the bones, it did, and made for blessed little rest. He strongly suspected such was the case for the rest.

He woke sometime in the night. Cracking one eye open, he found the fire had dwindled to a bright bed of embers. In the flickering dim, he could make out the hunched shapes of Miss Elizabeth on the one side, gazing blank-eyed into the fire and Turner on the other, intently staring at her, waiting, but for what? God only knew! But then, love prompted many a man to do many a strange and inexplicable thing.

Something had happened between the two of them. One wore hurt and accusation like a sergeant's stripes, bold-faced, unadulterated guilt masked the other. He had seen Turner attempt a few times to speak to her, but shaken and stunned—as were they all—Elizabeth had withdrawn within herself, refusing him access.

Any man could see there was a wall between them, and it struck Gibbs that it had Jack Sparrow written all over it. It boggled the mind, the what and the how of it. It sufficed to say, he knew Jack could work fast, especially when it came to the women folk, and apparently could reach from the his watery grave to do it. Whatever it was, it had happened fast, and sooner or later, there was going to be hell to pay.

**Most** nights, under the protection of dark and slumber, Jack came to Kate. At times he lurked just out of reach, with mirth-sparkled teasing eyes. Other times, he came to her with hot hands that sought her cool skin, with eyes gone to dark pools. On sun-drenched beaches, or on the deck of his beloved _Black Pearl, _he waited. Cloaking himself over her, his head blocked out the light as he bent to kiss her, his mouth demanding and urgent. Desperate to be touched, she would rise to him, burning with need, burying her fingers into his tangled mass of hair. Some nights he would linger, staying until he was dissolved by the dawn's light, but most nights he was gone as quickly as he came, leaving her in the dark, damp and quaking.

Then a night came when Kate lurched up from her pillow, screaming with the agony of her flesh crushing in a gaping maw, her cries echoing with those of another. Frail arms held her and rocked, cooing to quell her terrors as she raggedly gasped, her life being squeezed away by an enveloping stygian darkness. Thrashing, Kate longed for another pair of arms, stronger ones, but ones that she now knew were lost.

"What is it?" came Marguerite's voice, taut with concern.

"A dream, I think." Minnie's meek voice was at Kate's ear.

Kate was dimly aware of alarmed voices, male and female, gathering at the doorway of her room, looking on. Minnie's delicate grasp left, the mattress dipped, and the stronger, more confident arms of Marguerite took her, her ample bosom a soft comfort under Kate's head.

"Hush, _mon cher_." The matron picked up Minnie's rocking motion, murmuring soothing nothings. "_Calme vous-même, mon précieux_."

Kate fought against the darkness, trying to rise to the consoling voice, but was pulled back by the abyss. Amid her writhing shrieks, she heard a dying scream that could only be that of a ship, the grind and snap of her bones melding with the rending of timbers and planks. Finally, she pulled free, her tormentor fading into a watery maelstrom, but with that relief came the pain of a staggering loss even more devastating.

A glass was pressed to Kate's mouth, the fumes of brandy rising to meet her. She sputtered, choking on the hot liquor, only able to offer feeble resistance as more was forced upon her. It landed in a molten ball in her stomach, instantly sending assuasive fingers twining through her joints.

"There, _mon petit_," crooned Marguerite with motherly tenderness, smoothing Kate's hair back, and dabbing her face with a silken sleeve. "Better?"

Drawing a tremulous breath, Kate could only nod.

"Was it a bad dream? Do you wish to tell us about it?" Marguerite's palm was cool as she cupped Kate's heated cheek.

With her eyes still clamped shut, Kate resolutely shook her head.

"You should you know," chimed a vaguely familiar female voice, from the doorway.

"Yes, you should," urged Marguerite. "They never seem so bad, if you talk about them. Most of the time, they come out sounding so silly, you wonder why you were afraid."

Tears squeezed from between her lids as Kate clamped her lip between her teeth. No, she couldn't. There was no silliness here, but how could she bring them to understand? The tearing wrench of her gut—the sense of her insides being pulled out and twisted before her eyes—said that it was more than a dream.

She had woken to the same terrors one other night in her life. It had been the same as when Brian had died; she had known to the day—sagged by a stab in her chest that had left her virtually paralyzed. She knew now what she had known then, and was fearful if she was going to be able to survive another shattering loss.

Eventually, Kate was plied with more brandy, and her face dabbed with water laced with lavender and chamomile. A hot brick wrapped in flannel was shoved against her feet, and a knife put under the bed to scare the evil spirits that had brought the dreams, and she was tucked away to her own oblivion.

Jack never came again.

**So, this was the Locker!**

Jack had never been one to dwell on the beyond, going up, or going down, as the case might come to pass. The powers that made such decisions were far beyond his control, and so he had always relinquished such concerns to the capriciousness of Fate.

Heaven—or whatever they were calling it, in whatever part of the world he happened to be—had seemed highly unlikely. On the whole, he did not possess—nor exhibit, he might add—any of the qualities professed to be the pre-determinations of entry into such havens.

Hell. Ah! Now there's one he could get his teeth into, it's prevalence throughout the world, proof of the pervasiveness of evil. On that line of thinking, he preferred to think of himself as the rule, rather than the exception, as many would have him believe. For the most part, Hell, with whatever title might be hanging over the doorway, seemed much more likely for the repository of his soul's eternity. If questioned, that would have been his prediction, but beyond that he had spent little time on the matter.

Unpleasant? For sure. Painful? More than likely. Tormented? Well, wasn't that the point?

Legends told that the pain of entering Hell would be endless and eternal. He had never quite figured out how anyone would come to know that, unless someone had already been there, and then returned. If that were the case then escape was a possibility.

_Have to think about that later._

The pain of his passage had been unspeakable; crushing was more the word, the shatter of his own bones echoing in his head. He had screamed. No shame in that, nothing but false bravado to say otherwise. In the spirit of denying Jones—if the vicarious bastard happened to be about, which he probably was, wanting to be there to revel in his victory—Jack had not intended to do so, but no man could endure being devoured in total silence.

Oblivion. That had been next, and a welcome relief it was, shockingly sudden, leaving him to believe that pain, of the physical sort at any rate, was not going to be his final torment.

His life was quite over; no more to be said. A few things he did recall that were conspicuous their absence. From all appearances, the sun never moved; he was frozen in time. Air. He distinctly remembered a need of it, for breathing or some such something. Food was only a possession, being of minor consequence otherwise. A heart. There was a marked lack of beating. He tried raging, just to feel the blood course through him, but it was a wasted effort. There was no pain, physically at any rate; a blessing, of sorts. But there was no pleasure either, other than the momentary reward of the most menial. No pleasure, ergo no reward, hence no reason to try. And yet, he was driven by a perpetual obsession, but to what end? No beginning meant there was no end, which made any journey of mind or body for naught. He was adrift, while irrevocably grounded.

The _Pearl's_ agony had been quite another issue. Had the opportunity presented itself, he would have bargained to spare her, but Jones' wanted his soul—his complete soul—and taking the _Pearl_ was the only way to achieve that end. Jones knew it; bloody blighter seemed to know everything.

Hearing his precious ship screaming in the stygian void tore at him worse than the teeth—hundreds of them there were—rending his own flesh. His greatest regret was that her demise had been from his own doing—twice, now. She had forgiven him before; he hoped she would do so now. Otherwise, eternity just became longer.

Battered and wounded, to look at her was a stabbing reminder of what he had cost her. Seeing her now, pitifully resting on her keel in a sea of sand was intolerable, her soul draining away into the wretched white glare. Sheknew what she was missing, her cries for what she longed for eloquently clear enough to almost drown out the milling voices.

So, this was to be his Hell. Not torment of the body, but torment of the spirit, to see his ship suffer. Jones knew that, as any man of the sea would. The welfare of the _Pearl_ had been the reason for him to be in this convoluted mess in the first place.

_Weren't so smart after all, were you?_

_Seemed a reasonable proposition at the time._

Except, in the swirling morass, there was one daunting thought that gnawed at where his heart might have been: there was something else, a voice, a delicate murmur, and glimmer of a face, shimmering in the margins of his consciousness.

The devious mind had put him there had been diabolical enough to rob him of everything, and yet leave him with enough to know what he had been deprived of: human warmth. The body remembered well. Yet, for all these wretches cluttering his decks, not one of them held any more warmth than the pistol at his waist. He vaguely remembered said warmth, the feel of another's velvet skin, but could only recall that much, making him long for it that much more, torture by denial.

Ah, but there was that whisper, the fleeting glimpses that had not been wiped away, Overlooked, or intentionally left? Had Jones allowed him his memories—maddeningly unclear—to taunt him further, another layer of wretchedness? Or, had Jones intended to take everything, those scattered glimpses being only the crumbs left behind? Had she been taken from him, or was his mind desperate to keep her away, barricading her from discovery by others?

Loss. That was the greatest torture of all. And the bloody bastard that put him there knew exactly that it was the greatest toll.

Another fragment of himself, yet to escape? He thought not. This one was different, a beckoning that tugged at his bones, like a compass pointing north. That slice of hope, that ray of light was what he clung to: deep inside, well hidden from all the maddening others, lest they take it away from him.

Voices were nothing new; he heard them all the time, just as Mum had. But, it was different this time. A manifestation stood before him: himself.

_Who are you?_

_Regret._

_Can't be. I have no regrets._

_Really? Then where did I come from?_

_Just like me._

He jerked and spun around. _Who are you?_ There were two of them now, twins, or rather triplets, if he counted himself. No reason not.

_Selfish._

_I am not! I've thought of others. Hell, I came back, didn't I?_

A tapping on his shoulder brought him around, only to come face to face... with his face.

_You really are selfish._

_Who are you?_

_Can't you tell? Well, I suppose not. You rarely allowed me the light of day. I'm Honesty._

_I listened to you all the time. People just wouldn't believe me, that's all._

_Where you honest with her?_

The heart that no longer beat contracted. _You'll NOT speak of her, any of you_... His voice faded as he turned and found a dozen—no, two dozen—no… Hell they were multiplying faster than Bombay bombers!

_None of you will speak of her!_ He bellowed, vibrating with the effort. _Am I understood?_

Several cringed or cowered. Some stood stoic and unblinking, while others looked confused, irritated, skeptical, or even amused.

_She's with somebody else by now, anyway. Do you really think she'd still be waiting? Would you still be waiting?_

_You never told her you loved her._

_You're not getting out of here, you know._

_You know she's waiting. All you have to do is get out of here._

_It's your fault we're here._

_Surely there was another way._

_Are you sure you didn't forget something?_

_Revenge, that's what you need._

_Shoot the bloody bastard._

_Shoot yourself. End this madness._

_You betrayed them, betrayed them all._

_Should have bedded the maid, while you had the chance._

_Now what?_

_The sea; you need the sea._

_There's got to be a way._

_Rum!! There's no rum!_

_You're dead._

_Will you please shut it!_

If he could just make them pay attention. If he could just put them back in their proper places, the eggshell could be whole. In dizzying madness, with every face there being his, he had only himself to blame. All of them were just fragments and splinterings, like shattered remains of a sheared mast. And yet, like that mast, every shred would be necessary to re-assemble the whole, to make it as strong as it had been before, if it were ever to be of service, if it were ever to be what it was...

If…

It was easier said than done. Powers beyond his means were tearing them away. One by one, he tried to put them back in their places, but it was like trying to arrange feathers in a windstorm. A few had been willing enough, but always in the wrong order:

Zealous belonged behind Impatient, and Impatient most certainly had to be next to Timid. What about Honest and Selfish? Couldn't he just leave one? Must he have both to exist?

_Devious? Well, all right, he could come, but just behind._

Truth? Where was Truth? The wretched fool was just didn't know why, couldn't explain it specifically, but he knew he was going to be most definitely in need of him, front and center, except the obstinate wretch keep dodging away.

Where the bloody hell was Hopeful? Surely, he could help. Damn! Scurrilous was chasing him up the ratlines. It would be forever, before he could get them back down, but then forever was exactly what he had.

Lustful had Naïve cornered under the gangway. He didn't even want to know what was going on there!

Overbearing was effectively intimidating Supplicant into God knew what! _Hmm, no sense in talking to him; rather doubtful that he would be listening just now._

Evasive. Now there was an interesting fellow. _I might enjoy his company, but he keeps avoiding me attempts._

Greed. Don't remember seeing him much before.

Loving. That one he just couldn't keep a grip on; kept slipping through his fingers.

Ah, there was the demon of them all, standing at the helm with his arms crossed like the Emperor of China himself. Good-hearted. It was his bloody fault, this whole wretched mess. The sod could just stay up there, for all he cared.

The goat kept dolefully eyeing him. What could she possibly have done to provoke Jones into sending her there? Probably trying to curse him, as if there were any greater curse than what he was currently living. Where's Wanton? Chances are he had something to do with this!

Industrious was at least being helpful, holystoning the decks, with old Generous on his knees next to him, helping.

Honesty kept shoving his way in front of everyone. Someone is going to knock his block off if he weren't more careful. Maybe he should talk with Considerate.

Most startling was the one lurking on the f'c'stle, looking markedly effeminate. He had no idea where he came from, let alone what his name was, but Deceit kept sniffing around. Nothing good could come of that.


	31. Chapter 31: That Makes You Chartman!

**Chapter Thirty-one: "That makes you… chartman!"**

**Jack **prowled his cabin like a caged animal, blindly kicking aside the debris from the ruin, which was once his cabin that came in his path. It was a dream and a nightmare all rolled into one: he was back, but not entirely, rescued, but not really, saved, but by Barbossa, escaped from one nightmare only to be dropped into another, but with that mutinous, conniving bilge-swiller leering over his shoulder.

He kept moving, thinking if he moved fast enough, he might be able to outrun the voices that cheered and screamed in unison over his misfortunate fortunes. It was a vast relief to be away from the white hell, but it was an answer without resolution. It was so perverse as to make him suspicious that it might well be another convoluted facet, another torture—as if there weren't enough of those to go around already! Jones' hand had to be in this! No one else could be so depraved.

God, what he wouldn't do for a moment's peace! With Barbossa's carnivorous circling, there would be little chance of that; he didn't dare slow down. The mere thought of closing his eyes made him blench, lest he open them to a blazing glare. Joke's over! Time to start again!

His steps slowed with the feel of being watched. It had to be Tia Dalma. For the most part, she had kept her distance since they had left the beach, but was always lurking just at the fringes of his awareness, wearing as sympathetic look as that face could manage, bidding him to do more… but what? He was in dire need of a lot of things, sympathy most decidedly being not one of them.

Looking up, he found her standing across the wreckage, away from the shaft of light that banded down from the skylight.

"I supposed I have you to thank for all this," he announced, vaguely indicating their surroundings, and his salvation.

"You want to pay me?" she crooned, slipping closer.

"Hardly," he said, shaking his head, backing away. "Couldn't even if I wanted. This place seems to have robbed me of several things." _Another agony, to be sure._

The conjure woman only partially hid her disappointment, her mood taking a remarkable shift toward seriousness. "I know de tortures, Jack."

By her tone, it seemed that she was offering a sympathetic shoulder, but he wasn't in the mood to be baring his soul to anyone. If anything, he was feeling a bit overexposed. Besides, there was little safe haven in those shoulders.

Still restless, shattered glass and pottery crunched underfoot as Jack circled the shattered remnant of the table that used to dominate the room, now resembling a pile of kindling wood.

"Then there's nothing to be said; I don't care to revisit a one of them. What do you see in that grimoire, and all those beads and bones of yours?" he asked, gesturing at the bizarre collection of oddments at her neck. "One would assume that if where there is a way in, there is a way out. Do we get out of here?"

Tia turned inward, lapsing into a trance or meditation that only lasted seconds, her eyes opening almost the moment they closed. She lifted one shoulder in a disinterested shrug. "Many forces are already in motion."

How she wound up so close, so quickly was beyond him, but there she was, her face just inches from his, and he stumbled back. "I could heal you, Jack."

"No healing needed here." He slithered out from under the hand that wavered over his shoulder, and continued to sidle away as she followed him. "Just deliver me from this pestilent hellhole."

Tia Dalma sheered off, floating on her weedy skirt to the chair that miraculously had remained upright near the gallery's sill. Jack's throat clenched, seeing her touch the velvet slightly crushed where a head had once rested. He had put that chair there, for Kate to sit by the light and do her needle-fancies.

Tia Dalma closed her eyes, her sinuous fingers splayed on the chair back. "She waits."

"Who? Who waits?"

It was a reflex response. The mere act of holding Kate in his thoughts seemed perilous; those weren't his own anymore. And since he couldn't be sure who was going to be poking about in there, he had blocked her from his mind altogether. Suddenly, it was easier said than done. In the white hell, she had only been a glimmer, a thought too vague to be given a face or a name. Now, she was back, still a wavering image, but enough to cleave onto, an anchor finally, after being adrift in a sea of nothingness. Ruefully, he was coming to appreciate that it had almost been better when he couldn't remember her; then he didn't know what he was missing.

A sardonic smile lifted one corner of Tia's mouth, her teeth a disquieting glitter of black. "You know." To his dismay, it sounded as if she knew, as well. "Dat is all dat is important."

Afraid she might see too much on his face, he dropped his head, idly kicking at an overturned stool. When his countenance was sufficiently master, he looked back up, but she was gone, nothing but the smell of seaweed, herbs and unmentionables in her wake. Heaving a sigh of relief, he heard footsteps at the doorway, and groaned, thinking it was Tia coming back to antagonize him further. Instead, he found an even larger torment standing in the gaping hole where the doors had once been: Elizabeth.

Audibly gulping, Jack staggered backwards, continuing to retreat as Lizzie came in. Her progress into the room slowed at the sight of the destruction, her face clouding. Jack took a bit of satisfaction to see that she harbored a few uncomfortable memories of her own.

"We need to talk, Jack," she said with renewed determination, delicately picking her way around the shattered wood and clutter.

"Why? I'm sure there's nothing to be said here that can't be said… out there." His cabin had never seemed a small place before, but suddenly the walls were closing in, the air growing short, in spite of the gaping holes where windows had once been. He made a hopeful gesture toward outside, but then saw the capstan and cringed, discovering another memory he'd sooner forget; another lesson in the value of his earlier oblivion. "On second thought…."

"Jack, I'm sorry." Elizabeth took advantage of his brief pause to come closer, quickening her pace as he dodged away.

"Ha! She's sorry!" he announced to an empty room. "Now we're all better."

"But, I didn't mean..."

Jack reversed his path, pressing her back as he stalked forward. He had harbored no desire to broach the subject. What was done was done. All he expected of her was to stay as far away from him as a ship would allow. But, if she were insistent, she had best be prepared.

"Didn't mean what, to shackle me to a mast, to fed me to that bloody beast, trussed up like a Sunday chicken, or to send me to me death? Which? Please do explain, because I'm profoundly confused. A bit late for a conscience, isn't it? Isn't it remarkable, how that can trip up a soul? Act first, think later?"

She had obviously anticipated a gracious acceptance of her apology, and was indignant at his rejection. "I've never seen you so nasty."

"You've never seen me right after I was dead," Jack hissed, managing to harness only a portion of the bitterness that churned within, taking a great deal of satisfaction at seeing her flinch.

Turning on his heel, Jack resumed his evasive patterns through the hazard-laden room, Elizabeth maintaining a hot pursuit. _Why was it that women think being closer is going to make things better?_

"I did what I thought I had to do." Her words bore the sound of a well-practiced chant, more in the spirit of convincing herself rather than anyone around.

"Which was what, save dear William and your own arse?"

"Yes. But, I didn't..."

"No, you didn't, and more's the pity for it."

Elizabeth took the opportunity to leap over the remnants of a chair, successfully cornering Jack between the sill and an overturned trunk. "Then look at it this way: nothing would be different, except now I rescued you from the Locker."

"You!" he mocked, colliding with the trunk as he tried to back away. "I counted over fifty people on that beach." His reproach came unexpectedly, and she slumped, her pride momentarily bruised.

Conceding for the moment that there was no escape, Jack calmed. "You've changed, Lizzie, since last I saw you... however long that's been," he ended awkwardly.

"And now?" she asked tentatively, unsure if she wished to hear what was to come next.

"You're hardened and cold, with a very unseemly streak of ruthlessness," he said with dispassionate evenness.

By his judgment, Lizzie had embraced that change; no one made the girl do anything she didn't want to. A cruel set to her mouth, paired with a perpetual determination made her one to be reckoned with—or categorically avoided.

Elizabeth's face fell, confused more than hurt by his assessment. "You once said we were peas in a pod."

"That was then. Now…" Jack shrugged, allowing the thought complete itself. He currently didn't recognize enough of himself to be able to comment any further.

"There's something new between you and dear William, too," Jack added casually. "Distance. You hardly look at each other. Has he the pox, or something?"

One could cut the tension between them with one of their swords, orbiting around each other like territorial wolves. Tribulation can either draw people closer, or tear them apart, in his considered opinion. _No need in asking which route had been taken._

"No!" gasped Elizabeth. Scandalized, her blazing cheeks rendered her startlingly girlish, in spite of the sword at her side.

"Ah, well, you act as if he did."

For that matter, Turner had changed, too. In the glare of day, he had the look of someone being seasoned as well, but his hardness was of a different sort. It was no strain to know the answer: disappointment, sorrow. Just look to his side, and there it was, brown-eyed and golden-haired. Greed, ambition, betrayal, revenge; Turner's rigid morals had rendered him immune to such common things. Ah, but the love of a woman—or rejection, as it appeared—trumped all else. He cloaked it behind a solemn pledge to avenge his father, but Jack doubted the full validity of that. Paired with frustration, aching balls could lead a man down many a heretofore, unseen path.

Jack arched a suspicious brow. "For some odd reason, he looks at me as if I had a hand in this."

"You might... sort of..." Elizabeth's gaze dropped immediately, her voice fading to a bare mumble.

Jack gave a cackling laughed, vaulting over the trunk to resume his diversionary path. "Include me out! I suppose some dispensation should be given. Long periods of time exposed to Hector Barbossa have been known to warp even the most stalwart of character. It's to your credit that you survived at all."

"I need to tell you I'm sorry." Elizabeth's persistence grew as she trailed behind him through the ruins; Jack was beginning to entertain the possibility that this was only another episode in this circuitous Hell in which he had been relinquished: trapped with his murderess, to be perpetually hounded.

"The child still lingers!" Jack snorted, throwing his arms in the air. "You think you say, 'I'm sorry', and that makes it all better?"

He twirled about, Elizabeth skidding to a halt to avoid a collision. "Listen to me, luv, and very carefully: never say you're sorry, because it will never render anything any better. Accept your own deeds, good, bad or indifferent. You are who you are... or have become."

"But, Jack, I never meant to..."

"What? You never meant to feed me to that bloody beast like a rat to a cat?"

Startled to find that she was so near, Jack scurried ahead, wagging an admonishing finger over his shoulder. "Best be considering your impulses more carefully, if that weren't your intent. A tragic misfortune all around, if that were the case."

"You hate me, don't you?"

He pivoted around on one heel to give her a shaming look. For all the agitation that churned within, he felt a sudden wave of calm.

"No." He gave a shuddering breath at the admission. "Hating would require so much effort, and you've already managed to consumed quite enough of me energies. And don't give me that little-girl pout," he added, with an even sterner shake of his finger. "That went out with short skirts and braids." He pointedly glanced at her hair. "Well, maybe not so much the braids. You're a pirate now, and there's no pouting here—except Barbossa, when he doesn't get his way, but no one pays attention to him, anyway."

"Then you're still angry." Her voice grew sharper, her patience wearing thin, and well enough. So was his; it must have been left behind somewhere. "You're never going to forgive me, are you?" she fumed. The little girl lurked closer to the surface than he had imagined, the pout surfacing whether she willed it or not. It was laughable that she would resort to such tactics, but overly surprising.

"Not in this lifetime," he said, without hesitation. "I suppose I should be thanking you for allowing me to be see the error in me ways: good intentions reap few rewards. And I shall endeavor for said days to be forever, because you've also allowed me to see Hell itself, and I shan't be going back, you can mark me on that."

Elizabeth blinked in disbelief, propping her hands on her hips. "You'll thank me, but you won't forgive me?"

"A good man would," Jack said, nodding agreeably then made a great show of looking around, comically shrugging. "Sorry, guess there's none such here.

"You've a smell about you, Lizzie. Betrayal. Ambition. Treachery. What shall I call it?" Jack saw a glimmer of hurt, as his words found flesh, which brought him a shameless amount of satisfaction. By rights, he should have already run her through. In all probability, he hadn't just for fear of having the effort prove for naught, and her laughing in his face. After all, they weren't back—fully—yet.

She stiffened, her eyes bright with anger. "You're a selfish, cold, ruthless man that thinks only about himself, and doesn't' give a bloody damn about anyone or anything, other than his ship and himself."

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, tipping his head back. She had found her target—more than she would probably ever know—but he would be damned, if he she would see.

"How perceptive." Elizabeth fell back from his vehement glare. "You are correct: there is only one person, one thing I think about. From the time I wake—if I'm ever allowed the privilege of sleep again—there is one person that is foremost in me thoughts and goals, one driving force that keeps me going. And you know what?"

"What?" Lizzie's bravado faltered.

"It's not you. And from there I owe you nothing." He spun away, amid her indignant sputtering, retreating to a safe corner.

"Now, by my observations, you appear a bit pale, Miss Swann. It would be to the best interest of everyone involved, if you were to step outside for a bit of fresh air."

Huffing and virtually stomping her foot, Elizabeth's braid traced an arc in the air as she turned and flounced off. If he wasn't mistaken, there had actually been a wateriness brimming in her eyes; tears were in the offing. It wasn't necessarily the stuff of pirates either, but certainly an age-old and effective weapon, possibly even more than her sword.

Half smiling, Jack caught sight of Will a short distance from the splintered doors, dodging Elizabeth as she surged past. He stood watching her figure stalk away, and then turned to give Jack a questioning look, tinged with suspicion. Glaring back, Jack took an angry swipe at the air, and retreated into the protective cavern.

**_ "The world's still the same. There's just less in it."_**

**Impatiently** kicking the sand, Jack kept his back turned to the festering hulk on the beach while he waited for the landing party to gather.

The island's first noxious whiffs had met them while dropping anchor. In spite of pushing the launches further upwind, the intensity had grown as they neared shore to an eye-watering, sickening magnitude that had left everyone gagging, leading Jack to think perhaps Will had been the lucky one, remaining aboard.

_Shouldn't have trusted him!_ Every bone in his body screamed in protest.

Jack had stood at the bow of the longboat, stricken motionless, unprepared for the gorge that rose, not from the overall stench, but the too familiar, underlying reek of rot—his own rot, in which he had been engulfed. On the smell rode visions of his flesh dripping from shattered bones, piling like spent wax at his feet. He had screamed then, and now dug his fingers into his palms, until that pain overrode the urge to do so again.

He had moved down the beach with feet of wood, striving to stay far enough ahead to prevent Barbossa from seeing his face. The bastard had an uncanny way of seeing through any sham. He had waited until Barbossa had gone, before wiping away the cold sweat that had broken out, exhaling several times in an attempt to clear his head of the stink. After the Locker, his senses were still overwhelmed: sights, smells, voices, faces, decisions and driving needs. The life he had longed for had come back like a rogue wave, tumbling him over, catching him between greeting it with open arms, and scuttling like one of Tia Dalma's wretched crabs back into the safe crevices of a shell.

He was—they were—back, once again proving the impossible wasn't. But with each victory had come a barrier. Like a drunk worried too much about where his next drink was coming from, to be able to enjoy the one in his hand, there had been little time to celebrate his salvation. He was more concerned with salvation of another sort, permanent and eternal.

Any essence of normalcy, like commanding his ship, was a driving force—if Barbossa would just get his barnacled ass out of the way; he was like a dripping cock: temporarily eased, but never completely gone, and destined to return at the most inopportune moment—but Jack was also driven by other urges far more primal. Survive. Live.

Not ordinarily a man of revenge, Jack had entertained any number of murderous scenarios for the demise of Jones' beast, not truthfully imagining the opportunity would ever arise; surely Jones would tend his pet sufficiently to see it safe. But then, one struggled to imagine anything of that enormity could require coddling.

Now, seeing the rotting hulk made little difference. Sure, the loathing eased a bit, but the pain and horrors were indelibly intact; nothing, not even eternity, could ever erase those. In a way, he was curious as to what could have befallen the monster. On second thought, however, he really didn't care to think about it, no more than he wanted to think about what that thing had cost him, some of those losses still remaining to be seen.

He hitched his collar against a sudden chill. Equally loathsome was the thought of conceding to Barbossa. The old sea worm had been right, but dead wrong in his reasoning. Eternity meant finding Jones, and wherever Jones was, Beckett wouldn't be far behind, Jones' heart clutched tightly in those greedy, power-mongering little hands. An alliance of the damned and the damnable, if there were any truth to what he had been told. Given that, the only sure way to beat them was to have help, and who better than a pack of battle-crazed pirates?

Tia Dalma had a hand in it—again, or still—and he was confident that Barbossa had a thing or two to be gained, elsewise he wouldn't be involved. So, why not? Jack was a firm believer in following Providence, even if it bore ink-stained teeth, and wore a ridiculous hat. Galling as it was, Barbossa could just go on believing that he had all the answers.

Jack closed his eyes against another threatening lump that surged up his gullet. No glory in vomiting all over the beach, not the stuff that endears one to his crew, and the crew was giving him leery enough looks already. Come to think in it, he wasn't sure if he remembered how to eat. Breathing and swallowing had returned readily enough. Surely eating—and drinking, praise be!—couldn't be that far behind.

Suddenly, he felt tired and empty. He sought so much, but none of it was there. Time. A clock ticked, each heartbeat no longer a symbol of life, but a harbinger of the inevitable, each hollow thud dragging him inexorably closer to his horror revisited: death.

_Never! You can count on that, just for anyone who might be listening._

Fondling the scrap of lace at his wrist, he quickly looked away from the black sand beach. It was too easy to picture Kate's fair limbs against the sparkling ebony.

_You need her._

_You can't have her._

_I might! I could, if only…!_

_Only what? Eternity? And how exactly will you be spending that?_

_Not dead! You can fill in the blank from there._

_And then?_

_And then… and then, I'll have an eternity with her._

_It's going to take an eternity just to convince her._

_Trifles… hopefully._

Oh, the ease he could find there, to fall into her arms, and lie in the dark, her cool fingers at his temples, while he told her his heart.

_Except you never did._

_I could have… if I wanted._

_But you didn't. Squandered, that's what it was… again!_

He felt someone watching, and looked up to see Kate standing waist-deep amid the ferns near the trees, vivid and copper-bright, more lush than the verdant green that framed her. The soft roundness of her breasts peeked through her maddening tangle that the wind tumbled about her bare shoulders. Her eyes were blue then, like the surrounding waters. She gazed intently at him, not accusing or castigating—Thank goodness!—but watching, and waiting.

His heart lurched and he took a step toward her, reaching out, before he realized his folly. Dropping his hand, he glanced about hoping no one saw. He didn't want to share her, not with this rabble he was with, or anyone else.

_I'll come when I might, luv._ Since his return, it had become akin to a mantra.

To see her there was a torturous comfort; he took it as strong evidence that she still would have him. So much of what he was about to do would be for naught, if she wouldn't. He desperately needed her, but knew it to be impossible, too many matters, too much to be undone. After… after forever was his, after Beckett was dead. After, alive or dead, immortal or otherwise, he would be with her.

Shaking off his thoughts, he looked up to find she was gone, not even the grass bending or a twig moving to mark her passage.

_You're cracking, mate._

_Just save all the pieces; I'll put meself back together later._

He waved on the landing party. First things first: water, an innocuous necessity, but a necessity nonetheless.

From the beach, Jack followed a small seep; calling it a rivulet would have been too flattering. Logic dictated, however, that the water had to have come from somewhere, and so he struck inland, following the sodden track of moss-encased rocks.


	32. Chapter 32: I Don't Think I Can

**Chapter Thirty-two: "I don't think I can survive anymore visits from old friends."**

**The** guards gave Jack an unceremonious shove through the cabin doors, growling in relieved satisfaction as they slammed them shut.

As far as Jack was concerned, being drug off to the _Endeavour_ couldn't have come at a worse time, the very moment a mutiny was afoot. Mercer's appearance at the top of the _Pearl's_ accommodation ladder wasn't good for anyone involved, an attack mongrel that would bite off its own foot for personal gain.

Images of that pox-ridden bastard and Beckett circled around Kate when she had been taken, like a couple of blood-lusting sharks, came to Jack's mind too readily. A motivation there, make no mistake, but a distraction, too, and a dangerous one. Beckett was an imperious ass, but he was a perceptive one, and was ever alert for any opportunity to pounce on any sign of vulnerability.

He wanted Becket dead. Simple enough. But he wanted Beckett to be the most surprised dead man ever. Time. It was on his side. Stab the heart, and time became his friend. An enemy until then, he had long ago learned the fine line between friend and foe, and knew full well the chameleon-like tendencies of either.

While being rowed away from the _Pearl_, taunting the guards had helped pass the time, and provide himself a diversion. Jack resolutely refused to believe it would be the last time he would see the _Black Pearl, _but still couldn't bear to watch the distance grow between them. She would be there for him; they had an agreement. With a rogue's mixture of Sao Feng, Barbossa, Tia Dalma, Swann and that mutinous Turner aboard, Chicanery's only problem would be in choosing whom she would visit upon first.

Shackled in the boat, he had touched the knees of his flanking guards, and batted his eyelashes, murmuring lewd suggestions. Seeing the two go stiff and red-faced, he continued to play the addled sybarite. Irritated frustration could be a good weapon, leading to distractions and moments of hesitant misjudgments; it was always a possibility that later he would be in need of just the thing.

Now, rubbing his wrists, Jack quickly scanned the _Endeavour's_ day salon, finding his nemesis leaning in casual confidence against the velvet drapes at the gallery.

He had known Beckett for nigh on to twenty years. The price of said familiarity was… familiarity; he knew Beckett. Granted, and conversely, Beckett knew him, but Jack _knew_ Beckett to his core, whereas Beckett's hubris wouldn't allow him to consider that anyone could possibly have seen through his veneer. Therein laid a vast and significant difference. Deception would be Cutler's assumption as to Jack's methods, not unlike Jack would assume of him; on that level they knew each other intimately. This would be a battle of the wills, the will to keep one's ulterior motives well hidden.

Beckett took inordinate pride in his surroundings, and was meticulous about every aspect, and the room was glaringly opulent, a reflection of the vaulted view its master had of himself. Jack was keenly aware of how incensed he would be at seeing a pirate's grubby hands touching anything, leaving fingerprints etched on his precious silver and crystal, knocking over a bit of china, or ruffling box contents by breathing on them.

"It's curious. Your friends appear to be quite desperate, Jack," Beckett began conversationally, still gazing at the _Black Pearl _as she laid off the _Endeavour's_ stern. "Perhaps they no longer believe that a gathering of squabbling pirates is enough to take down the _Flying Dutchman_. And so, despair leads to betrayal. But you and I are no strangers to betrayal, are we?"

_Betrayal_? Jack snorted. Betrayal hardly seemed to be doled out in even increments. _Step carefully, good sir. Treachery has many tentacles._

It was an odd rivalry, neither of them willing to concede to the contention that hung between them. To do that would be to admit that, at one time or another, one had been bested by the other.

It was difficult to retrace to what the initial affront had been. To Jack's recollection, albeit fogged, it had been his refusal to cow to Beckett's lust-laden overtures. Eclectic though Jack's tastes might have been, there wasn't enough gold in the world for that deed, although Beckett had fancied Jack enough to make grand offers. Even more insulting had been that the Good Lord had actually judged Jack to be gullible enough to believe such promises. He wasn't about to become a lapdog; there was always a leash there somewhere.

Even more of an insult—salt in the wound, as it were—had been Jack bedding the lovely, and not-so-innocent-as-her-brother-preferred-to-believe Miss Beckett. Well, she had bedded him, if the full truth were to be known, but a gentleman never discusses the actions of a lady. She had been working her way through the Company's captain roster. Who knew that by the time she reached the S's, Cutler would be wise and suitably incensed by his sister's not-so clandestine escapades?

Of course, there had also been the small matter—well, not so small, but lovely enough in her own right—of the Dowager Beckett. All things considered, perhaps bedding Cutler's widowed mother had been a bit over the top, but how was he to have known? It wasn't as if she walked about with her name emblazoned on her bosom.

Jack had spent years ducking Old Puff-and-Pomped, and yet he knew to the last day, date and time when he had last looked upon those lifeless, shark eyes. The hiss and smell of his own flesh burning had served to etch that into his memory quite deeply, the satisfied smirk as Beckett had leaned into the hot iron only framing the final picture Jack had carried for over ten years.

Beckett had been the cause of Jack's destruction. It was only fitting that Jack would now plant his foot squarely on that pampered arse to step up to his own salvation.

Jack moved to work quickly, being sure each thing he touched was moved just a fraction, lids were left ajar, and careful alignments disrupted. He would have to have been a crazed dolt—more crazed that lately, that is—to think that Beckett would have something so valuable so handy. To find the heart there would be too lucky, but then, he was due for a bit.

"It isn't here, Jack." Beckett turned and strolled closer.

"What? What isn't?"

"The heart of Davy Jones. It's safely aboard the _Dutchman_, and so unavailable for use as leverage, to satisfy your debt to the good Captain."

Looking for his next target of desecration, Jack strolled across the room, to flaunt and taunt; he wanted to disarm Beckett in every way possible. "By my reckoning, that account has been settled."

"By your death?" Beckett's comment halted Jack in mid-stride, grimacing. One had to give the man credit for accuracy. "And yet, here you are."

Jack's face already hurt from keeping it carefully arranged. It was a struggle to keep focused, and not succumb to the myriad of detailed, grisly machinations he had pondered for a very long time.

"Close your eyes, and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's how I get by."

Jack posed before the portrait, judging Beckett's whereabouts by the sound of his voice, his fist curling around the staff. He was too close for comfort; it would be too easy to bash in His Lordship's head with it, but that would be too quick, _far_ too quick. Patience. It wasn't one of his best virtues, but one he was willing to culture. Play it right, and he would have an eternity of Beckett at his disposal.

A brief glance toward Beckett showed his mouth compressed in a tight line. His lips were turning white; under all that silk and lace, he was positively rigid. _It was working!_

"And if Davy Jones were to learn of your survival?"

_Bloody damn! The man was like a dog with a bone._

Beckett followed Jack around the room to a table, where he poured two gold-collared glasses of sherry. "Perhaps you should consider an alternate arrangement," he suggested, his eyes steady on his task. "One that requires absolutely nothing from you but information."

Jack glanced down at the pieces of eight—nine of them. Interesting. Someone thought they knew more than they really did, or someone knew more, and was crafty enough not to tell everything they knew, which meant Cutler knew, but not really. He suspected, which made him vulnerable.

For reasons he couldn't explain, Jack suspected the former. It was a reasonable mistake, regarding the pieces of eight. That endeavor came only for a price, but whose? Given what was given, the list of candidates was short. As best he could fathom, the ones who had the most to gain. Such knowledge made what he was about to do just that much more delicious.

"Regarding the Brethren Court, no doubt?" Jack tossed back the contents in one gulp. "In exchange for fair compensation, square my debt with Jones."

He handily plucked away Beckett's glass before he could life it to his mouth, quaffing that one as well, in dire need of something more potent than sherry to wash away the bile that rose, something far stronger to strengthen his resolve in the face of the bastard. "Guarantee my freedom?"

"Of course." Beckett was visibly pleased with Jack's perceptiveness; his could smell success already. "It's just good business."

Jack found the game pieces on the desk an interesting commentary. Lord Beckett's playground, the world, and all the little people that were just game pieces. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Beckett stiffen as he picked up the central most piece, not surprised to see it was a representation of Caesar the Short himself.

"Were I in a divulgatory mood, what might I divulge?"

Cologne had only been a faint suggestion in the day room's air, but now, as Beckett moved even closer, the cloyingly pungency of sandalwood and tuberose hit Jack like a fist to the stomach. On a better day, he could have probably face it down, but it had been barely days since his return from the Locker, and he had been left more fragile than he care to think. With pinpoint vividness, the scent brought back his day of doom at Beckett's hands, the sizzle of his own skin, the smoke of his burning flesh, mixed with that same scent curling up his nose, and his own screams filling his head, the sherry he had just swallowed lurched threateningly.

Cutler leaned to whisper, adding to his own sense of conspiracy. "Everything. Where are they meeting? Who are the pirate lords? What is the purpose of the nine pieces of eight?"

A crawling sensation raced up Jack's back as Cutler's breath brushed his neck, requiring every shred of willpower to keep from reeling away. _This was going to be more difficult than I had expected. _Although, come to think on it, puking on Beckett and all his preciousness was an intriguing thought.

Turning, Jack palmed the game piece into his pocket, already imagining a number of games he could play with that. Possibly Tia Dalma might be able to work a bit of her magic with it. He moved away, pacing, as if he were considering Beckett's proposition, but more for the sake of clear air, and a deep breath. That small bit of walking did help clear away most of the ghosts that had collected.

Jack spotted a fan on one table, and began a vigorous application of that, only to be met with an afresh explosion of attar of roses and jasmine perfume, but at least it blanketed Beckett's cloying reek. He turned to find Beckett reclined at his desk, twiddling one of the pieces of eight in one hand.

"You can keep Barbossa, the belligerent homunculus and his friend with the wooden eye both, and Turner…" Yes, there was a delicious thought. Those two most definitely deserved each other; probably had already negotiated any number of treacheries. "Especially Turner." _Let that mutinous gob explain his bungling to his benefactor_. "The rest go with me aboard the _Pearl_, and I will lead you to Shipwreck Cove, where I will hand you the pirates, and you will _not_ had me to Jones. Bloody fair deal, don't you think?"

A touch of a smile traced Beckett's mouth; he was hearing what he had been expecting to hear. By his measure, his plan was going exactly to plan. "And what becomes of Miss Swann?"

Cutler was trolling. It was laughable that he would think Lizzie to be a point of interest to him. It was a bit disappointing; Cutler was usually a better judge of his game pieces, more adept at finding the soft underbelly of his victims. What had Lizzie been telling Beckett? The mind did wonder.

No matter! Why not? It was distasteful to think of any woman at Beckett's hand, but if there were such a category, Lizzie certainly qualified. With her sweetening the pot, as it were, it would be one more assurance that Beckett would be lured unerringly to Shipwreck. Still, he couldn't give in too quickly; perhaps it was time to go on a little fishing trip of his own.

"Of what interest is she to you?" Jack cocked one hip and gave Beckett a knowing look.

"We both know there is not a thing you could possibly want—or do—with her."

Beckett blenches, squirming, as if the groin wound Jack had inflicted some years ago was still fresh. _Ha! Target found, target hit_

"A beautiful girl," Jack mused, rolling his eyes in suggestion, resuming with the fan as he swaggered back and forth. "Daughter of the Governor, with Royal connections. Correct me if I'm wrong, but 'tis my understanding that the good Governor no longer blesses our shores."

Beckett was as demure and impeccably unflappable as ever. However, one corner of his mouth twitched, a sure sign of being discovered. "A wise and caring father, when provided with the time and opportunity, would make provisions for the welfare and care of his dearest."

"How extraordinarily kind of you to offer up your expertise, and services as caretaker of the Swann fortunes." There wasn't the least bit of compliment instilled in that.

"One does what one must." The corner of Beckett's mouth lifted slightly, his eyes brightening. "You could improve your standings, Jack, if you were to elevate your standards. By the way, whatever happened to that whore? A vixen, wasn't she, in a wild sort of way?"

Since he had been shoved through the doors, Jack had been preparing for Beckett to broach the subject, and hence was able to meet the barb smoothly. "And how is your dear sister; still as lovely as her mother?"

Beckett stiffened, his eyes bugging, but artfully managed to curb off a reply. Jack's palm still itched for his sword, but reminded himself that just blood and death was not going to be enough.

Jack knew he held the upper hand, holding every card, everything Beckett thought he wanted, or needed. Beckett had always been just that bit over-anxious, with lofty opinions of his ability to out manipulate any misfortunate stumbling into his path. It would never occur to the prick that he couldn't overcome a gaggle of pirates.

Even more distracting at the moment for Jack was worrying about his ship. There was no telling the kind of mess he was going to have to clean up there! There had to be a way to get back, and soon!

"Jack!" With a look of discovery, Cutler rose abruptly. "I've just recalled. I have this wonderful compass, which points to whatever I want." Stopping at a table across the room, he produced Jack's compass, holding it in exhibition in the palm of his hand. "So for what do I need you?"

_Damn! That wretched thing again!_ Blessed thing had become a millstone, seemingly working for everyone but him. It led him to wonder if that were all a part of Tia Dalma's initial plan. Of course, the next question would be who told Beckett of the compass, and what it could do, but at the moment there wasn't time to contemplate that list of candidates.

"It points to what you want most, and that's not the Brethren Court, is it?"

"Then what is?"

"Me—dead." It wasn't an easy admission, but it was God's honest truth. Still, his insight took Beckett back, but recovered quickly.

"Damn," His Lordship said under his breath, and then peevishly pitched the box at Jack, who deftly caught it, tossing the fan in return. Like a cat contemplating its next mouse, Beckett rolled his eyes thoughtfully. "Although if I kill you, then I can use the compass to find… Shipwreck Cove, was it?"

He uttered the name with a smug satisfaction of victory. The fact that he hadn't known the name, until just then was even more telling to Jack; the man held fare fewer cards than one might suppose. "Cut out the middleman, as it were."

Jack recoiled, caught unprepared for Cutler to pull a weapon; such displays of dominance weren't his usual style. No more than a sleeve pistol, it still could do a fair amount of harm, if one were to be hit in the right place. Knowing the best defense is a good offense, Jack advanced, pressing Beckett back as he spoke.

"With me killed, you'd arrive at Shipwreck Cove, find its stronghold nigh impregnable, able to withstand blockade for years, and then you'd wish, 'Oh, if only there were someone I had not killed inside, to assure that the pirates then come outside…'"

The muzzle of the pistol remained steadily aimed at Jack's face, Beckett's blue eyes glimmered, the corners of his mouth curling, obviously considering the hook to be set. "And you can accomplish this?"

"You may kill me, but you may never insult me. Who am I?"

Beckett floundered for an answer. It wasn't an easy thing to admit, but Jack was a bit crestfallen that Beckett hadn't bothered to at least follow his life somewhat. This is what I am. This is what you made me. He didn't expect remorse or guilt; those were empty emotions that either of them had little time for. But every man wants to know the worth of his existence, his legacy, and so now he stood squarely before Beckett, in all his antagonizing glory.

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow!"

It would have been difficult to recall another time when a cannonball had been so welcomed, Beckett tumbling backward across his desk.

"Done!" A handshake, to at least give Beckett the impression of an agreement made, and Jack was off.

Things were changing quickly, but still on an unerring path: Jones, his heart and immortality.

** "And that was all without one drop of rum!"**

**Arriving **at the _Black Pearl_ without shattering or losing several extremities had been fortuitous. Maybe a little of the luck Jack had been hoping for finally came visiting.

Said luck was followed closely on the heels by even more good fortune, in the way of sending Turner the Traitorous off to the brig. Hector stood in stunned awe of Jack's acrobatic feat; Jack considered anything that rendered the old sea worm silent was not so much luck as fortunes, but he'd take either, knowing full well it was going to be short-lived. Sao Feng was gone, and on his own ship; so much more the better. The high point, the cherry atop the tart, however, was that Elizabeth was gone. Now things were really beginning to look up!

"Gone with Sao Feng," Gibbs reported, his joy in the matter much more restrained than Jack's.

"Gone with Sao Feng," mused Jack, savoring each word. "Now there are two people that most deservedly deserve each other. An unholy alliance, if ever there was one."

It did lead one to wonder how Turner had managed to allow such a thing to happen. Gibbs insisted that is had been by Elizabeth's own choice, which rendered the scenario even more intriguing.

Jack chuckled to himself. It would appear their differences had become somewhat on the irreconcilable side. Whatever Young Turner had done, there had been a serious miscalculation in the outcomes. The boy was most definitely in need of more counseling.

In any case, Jack could only briefly enjoy the victories. With the _Endeavour_ and the _Flying Dutchman_ within canon range, there were too many matters to hand, all of which could be handled more readily with three less sharks in the water.

"Make way, and full speed, Mr. Gibbs. You have your heading. Now go. Go! You know how it goes."

Rest was what Jack needed, a few moments peace. He still didn't sleep, but was desperate for any ease that might come his way, and there was only one place that might be possible: his bunk.

While in the Locker, a part of him screamed to stay away, and yet something else had drawn him. Then, the room had been sterile and cold, the mind straining to remember what had been there, leaving him to stand in the middle of the floor, wondering. The voices were always stronger there, but vastly different from those out on deck, an echoing maelstrom. And yet he had no sense of whom or why, only that he needed to be there, and felt the better for it.

It was too easy to see Kate on the bunk, her bare limbs and breasts glowing pale in the candlelight, those cursed eyes burning with more than the light of the flame, beckoning him, asking for what she knew he wanted. Her sweetness barely lingered now, her scent fading, just as were his hopes of ever having her back.

None of that, mate. All things come to him what slashes the hardest.

For having lived elbow-to-elbow his entire life with others, he found the crush of bodies around him unnerving. He needed—craved—time alone, desperate for what the Locker had taught him to hate the most: himself and his thoughts.

Jack shoved past the curtain, rounding into his sleeping quarters, and skidded to a halt at the sight of Hector Barbossa lying spread-eagle on the bunk.

"Get your bloody, pox-ridden ass out of there!" he roared, seizing Barbossa by the arm and bodily lifting him away.

"Smells like a woman in here," Barbossa mused sleepily, giving his eyes a lewd roll.

"Lizzie must have been in here... looking for me, no doubt." His own glib voice sounded foreign and odd, his body suddenly gone hollow.

"Nay, not that slip of a girl." Barbossa inhaled deeply through his nose, blithely ignoring Jack's infuriation. "This is a woman, full-bodied."

Jack shrugged, torn between thrashing the man within an inch of his life, or doing anything he could to just get him out of there. Opting for the former, he turned to leave, waving a nonchalant hand. "Must have been the whore..."

Failing to take Jack's lead, Barbossa remained unmoving, chuckling knowingly. "'Tis no whore." He inhaled again, snuffling like a truffle hog. "A woman satisfied, aye, but not without doin' her own share o' satisfyin'."

The heat that rose in Jack's face wasn't from embarrassment as his fist curled against his leg. He couldn't bear the thought of this mutinous pig forcing his way in, as if he intended to have a share of her.

Hector went to the washstand and picked up the sponge—her sponge—from the bowl, Jack going rigid at the sight of those grimy, insidious fingers touching anything of hers.

"Hmm!" Hector hummed in appreciation. "A lady, too, I'll wager. Coming up in the world, Jack."

Jack snorted, laughing aloud before he could stop himself. "Hardly!"

That much was true. With her not inconsiderable spark, Kate would have resisted being called _a_ _lady_; on more than one occasion he had heard her adamantly insist that she was not. He inwardly smiled at the mental images of Barbossa pressing the point to her face, and the fist she would bury in his for his efforts.

"There is _someone_, isn't there, Jack?"

_Bloody sod!_ He always did have a way of reading him, and was giving him one of those knowing looks that made him feel fully exposed.

It was gone now. The last vestiges of anything—everything--he had ever had, or might ever have again, of her, were gone, destroyed by that stinking rotter. He shook with a rage that he didn't dare give a voice. He was stricken momentarily speechless by the pain of the loss, anyway. He had just gotten that shred of her back, and now...

"I can't imagine what you're talking about," Jack said flippantly over his shoulder as he strolled back into the salon. All he could think of was getting that bastard out of that room as fast as possible.

"Oh, I think ye do, Jack."

The salon was utter destruction. There was no way Hector could have seen anything that would have suggested Kate existed. Suddenly, he didn't even want to think her name, think of her, just in case Hector did have some new clairvoyant powers. He had been meticulous about removing every shred of evidence of her existence, lest anyone know of her... except for that blessed sponge! How could he have so foolishly overlooked that?

Not as if you've had nothing else to think about.

"She would have to be someone special," Barbossa speculated, "for ye to be keepin' her here on the _Pearl_. Not your style, _usually._"

He was trolling, purely speculating, probing and prodding for a toehold, a leverage to be able to use against him. Damned if he would provide the mutinous sod with anything!

The room was in a shambles, a bare shadow of its former self. The table was gone, the aft gallery smashed, a gaping hole now, the skylight in shattered pieces under his boots. A few chairs seemed to have survived, tumbled off into the far corners.

_If only she could see it now_, he thought ruefully, chuckling to himself at the sound of broken glass crunching under his feet. _She would work herself into a tizzy cleaning._

Jack tried not to, but couldn't help but stare at the chair. He had pulled it near the windows, with a lamp sitting on a trunk when he discovered Kate hunched there, doing her little embroidery roses that she loved so much. If he had allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, he could see her sitting there, with a pillow at her back—couldn't remember where he'd taken that from—that tangled madness of hair a coppery curtain around her face as she bent to her work. Although, she usually would be looking up when he came in; she always knew when he was coming. Bloody clairvoyant, she was. Between that, and those eyes that could see right through him, there was no keeping any secrets from her.

Jack diverted himself with searching the room. So much was gone but, to his great relief, his charts were still in their place, rolled up amid the beams overhead or in blue-and-white porcelain vase—he did remember taking that—that had managed to stay upright. With a bit of searching, absentmindedly acknowledging whatever it was that Barbossa was prattling on about, he found his log behind a table, and some of his navigational tools under a churned up rug.

"Isn't that right, Jack?"

Barbossa's shout yanked him back to reality. "Oh, aye... sure... certainly..."

Ultimately, mumbling something about ship and duty, Jack left, feeling as smashed and wrecked as the cabin behind him, leaving Barbossa frowning with a mixture of puzzlement and wary suspicion. Still, Jack knew he didn't dare falter.

Once outside, Jack staggered forward, unaware of where he was going, knowing he only wanted to get as far away from the cabin as possible. On a ship, there was only one choice: the bow, more specifically the bowsprit. The crew only gave him passing glances, acknowledging him by virtue of his position and nothing beyond. Two or three aside, they were all strangers. Perhaps that was just as well. Solitude was what had he sought, only one familiarity now: the _Pearl_. Her council was all that could help him now.

A firm but friendly hand on the arm stopped him just short of the f'c'stle, and he looked up to see Gibbs face loom out of the shadows.

"Here."

Grim-faced, but strained with compassion, he subtly shoved a bottle in Jack's hand. Jack looked down, recognizing the feel before he actually saw the dull sheen of the glass.

"Rum?" It was a half-surprised question; since his salvation, there had been a marked lack of it.

"Let's just say it was found," Gibbs murmured from the corner of his mouth, arching a conspiratorial brow. In an uncustomary gesture of familiarity, he gave Jack's arm an encouraging pat and a wink. "'Pears he might be in dire need."

In the growing darkness, the _Pearl_ heard him as he laid on the jibbom, his head pillowed on the shroud collar, staring at the sky. She rocked him, as she pressed on her course, murmuring the sweet nothings of a lover with the soughs of the waves at her bow, and touched him in all the right places. Little by little, she took the shattered pieces and made him whole.

The _Pearl_ had left the _Endeavour_ well in her wake; Jack had checked, more than once. It was barely a contest. The warship's decks had been a mess, the _Pearl_ able to make way almost immediately after disengaging. He patted the compass comfortably back at his waist. Without that, His Lordship would be sailing blind, but not forever. If Beckett was anything, he was resourceful—and there was more than one person playing this game.

Not much later, while communing with his ship, Jack idly waggled his foot, and watched Turner's treachery at the bow pulpit, binding a body to barrel, and then heaving it overboard. With slack-jawed admiration, Jack had to grudgingly admit that he didn't think the lad had it in him; maybe he was Bootstrap's boy after all.

_How the righteous have fallen._ Sometimes he wearied of always expecting the worst from a person, but then said persons always rose—or sank, as could be said—to meet his every expectation.

He squinted off into the dark at the _Pearl's_ wake; she was doing her part. The _Endeavour's_ lights were nowhere to be seen. It was a safe bet that Beckett had opted to follow the _Pearl_ himself, rather than relegating his most treasured traitor to the _Dutchman_. It was also a safe bet that Beckett was running with her lamps doused, but it was an even better bet that they were being outdistanced, as well.

Out of habit, he looked up to check the moon for the time. By all appearances, it was going to be a moonless night. The impact of what he had been through struck him again, even with something so simple as the cycles of the moon, days, months…years; he had lost it all. As he had lain there, however, a plan had solidified, one that would allow him an eternity to regain all that had been lost.

"William, do you notice something? Or rather do you notice something that is not there to be noted?"

Turner's escape had been right on time, actually a bit faster, truth be told. The lad was a credit to his namesake after all. Jack had every reason to believe that Turner and Beckett were in collusion. _Time to rid meself of one more traitor._ He always took a higher level of satisfaction in turning one's treachery back on them. _Justice does have its own sweet flavor._

Time would be of the essence, lest someone from the crew come upon their little vignette; discovery could make all his efforts for naught. He had instructed Gibbs to keep everyone busy aft, but there was much to be done all over the ship after the fight.

"…And how does your dearly beloved feel about this?" Will ducked his head, avoiding answering. "Ah, you've not seen fit to trust her with it."

_The schism deepens. Two comets hurtling toward each other since childhood, only to pass each other in the dark, and keep going._ William and Lizzie had changed, in parallel downward spirals, and yet remarkably had managed to grow apart. Familiar with each other in every way, they were strangers, neither able to recognize what they had become, when in actuality, they both looked in the mirror.

"I'm losing her Jack. Every step I take for my father is a step away from Elizabeth." The admission came without considerable effort.

"Mate, if you choose to lock your heart away, you'll lose it for certain."

_Was that for Turner's benefit, or your own?_

_Where's your heart, mate?_

_Where it belongs—and where no one will ever know._

_And if she's lost?_

_Then she can take it with her; I'll have little use for it. _

"If I may lend a machete to your intellectual thicket, avoid the choice altogether. Change the facts. Let someone else dispatch Jones."

This was going to be a hard sell; Turner was like a dog with a bone on this quest of his. Hopefully, he would see this as Jack's attempt to lighten his burdens. Just because the die had been cast, it didn't necessarily mean everyone had to work at cross-purposes.

Yet and still, he still couldn't believe the words were about to come out of his mouth.

"Death has a strange way of rearranging one's priorities."

And never die again! How's that for a priority? Immortality, and you'll have an eternity to get her back. What's wrong with that?

_But what about…?_

_Nothing! Sorry, can't hear you, mate._

"You have to do the job, Jack." Will was almost taunting him with that point.

Damn! That lad never did have an eye for the inventive. "I don't have the face for tentacles."

_And how will Kate be feeling on the subject?_

_Sorry, still can't hear you, mate! Going to have to talk a little louder, over all the other voices._

"Think like me. It'll come to you."


	33. Chapter 33: My Redards to Davy Jones

**Chapter Thirty-Three: "My regards to Davy Jones!"**

**Jack** waved a mocking farewell from the bow as Will floated away into the darkness, cling to the barrel, and his dead companion.

"_Think like Jack!" Tachh!_

Bloody good riddance! Another perfidious reminder of the consequences can be wrought by a good heart and best intentions.

Basking in the satisfaction of a job well done, task completed, thorn removed, Jack idly strolled the shadowed deck, in and out of the lamps' halos, his fingers trailing the rails, feeling the curves and textures of his ship much as he would have traced the shape of a woman.

Been a long time, mate.

Unknowably long, given the lack of time…there.

No worries; it was a trial he had faced before. Enticing thought, the arms of a woman, any woman. Well, except _that_ woman, vexing damsel, damsel in distress…distressing woman who fed him to Jones' beast like last night's slops. No, not her! Never, never again! The associations were too numerous to mention, each one, in and of itself sufficient to turn him cold; taken as a whole, they were insurmountable. He had walked away from fascinations and flirtations before, and could bloody well walk away from that one. _Thank you, very much!_

Will, the poor soul. One misstep, and Turner could truly be a eunuch. Elizabeth would take a man's balls without a blink of an eye; probably try wearing them herself, figuratively speaking, of course. She had no sense of what a man was about, unlike his Kate. That would be Turner's problem, however; he washed his hands of such business.

He shuddered again.

Been doing that a lot, lately, mate.

Since his return, something had been missing, left behind. He had considered the possibility that one of the dozens of those babbling dolts had wandered off, failing to return in time. Perhaps he was like a mast, complete on the surface, but slivered in the middle, weakened, ready to give way at any moment. Didn't seem likely, but then what was it?

Damned if he knew!

The Locker had left him in dire need of human touch, anything warm and alive, to aid in confirming that he was, indeed, at last and still alive. So many of his senses were dulled, unresponsive—dead. The rum from the bottle that hung from his hand was flat, offering none of it usual restorative powers.

Always worked before. What the bloody hell, are we to do now? What tonic exists that could provide the council and solace that mind and body require?

Odd as it was, the orange—yes, he finally ate—had sparked his senses more: the sharp citrus smell that curled up his nostrils, the sweet tang exploding on his tongue, and the juicy wet that caught in his beard, dripping cool on his chest.

_That's what I'm talking about! That's alive!_

And yet, the feel of the _Pearl_, running strong before the wind as she was, was his best evidence yet that he was back.

Stretch your legs, darling. You're back, too, just as alive as ever.

The starry black vault overhead was a blessed relief from the white glare. Ominously unfamiliar, the night had scared him at first. Now he reveled in the protection that it offered, and wore it like a shroud, to fend off the cursed brilliance should it ever inexplicably and unexpectedly return.

It could happen. Maybe the Locker was reality.

Think about it, mate! Maybe that is where you really belong, the rest of this just a bizarre twist.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear the myriad of voices. He was beginning to feel a bit crowded in his own skin with the chorus of different and yet all the same voices, vying for his attention, colliding in a dozen different arguments. Voices had always been his companions: yes or no, right or wrong, yes, you do, or no, you don't, go ahead, no, don't go ahead. A few extras he could manage.

The clatter of his hair oddments attracted the attention of any crew that happened to be near. Most of the crew gave him a wide berth, as if he carried the Locker like some kind of a malady, like wharf fever or yellow jack, that could be caught by a mere brushing of the sleeves. Even Gibbs was distant and standoffish.

_Can't blame him; couldn't blame anybody—for anything!_

Except yourself.

Any bloody hope any of you are going to go away? Not all; just a few. It would be an enormous help.

He woodenly walked the decks, unable to light anywhere. He still couldn't sleep—too similar to the limbo he had fled—and so moved like a shark, certain that if he stopped, he'd cease to exist, with one dominating thought, a single motivation: live. More specifically, and to the point, don't die!

The sound of broken glass crunching under his feet caused him to blink. Looking around, he found he was in his cabin.

_Been here long, mate? Don't even remember walking in here, do you?_

He stared out the glassless windows, watching the wake of the _Pearl_ fade into an infinite V-shape, the arms converging back to the point of everything he had just fled.

Or, was it an arrow, the trail of a messenger coming to pull you back…?

Startled, he jerked backwards. _Steady, mate._

He stumbled to the gallery's far corner, his favorite corner, when he felt pensive or morose. Swiping the sill with his sleeve to clear away the shards of glass, he smiled with wry satisfaction at seeing the blood well when a sharp edge scratched his wrist. _Alive, after all!_

Slumping against the wood, he drew up his knees under his chin, and glumly stared at the ruin. A few candles burned, dotting the cabin with their golden glow, a feeble attempt to brighten an otherwise dismal view.

_Best to leave destruction un-illuminated._

Bloody, mutinous Hector had made a worse shambles of the place than Jones' beast; it even smelled like him. The last time, it had taken months to rid it of the smell; even had to burn the mattress. Empty rum bottles rolled back and forth, and those blessed browned and rotting apple cores were everywhere.

_Can't the lazy sod at least walk as far as the por,t and heave them off!_

Something moved in the shadows of the sill. Brown and furry, his first assumed that it was a rat, and opted to ignore it. Then it moved closer, and he groaned; it was Barbossa's pestilent monkey. Creeping forward, the moment the beast saw Jack looking, he abruptly stopped and sat up, folding its hands in its lap and looking away, repeating the game, until he was only an arm's length away.

"Come to torture me, eh? You're a little late, there are several in line ahead of you."

A game of eye tag ensued, each trying to catch the other looking. At one point, the monkey took his chance to reach for the rum bottle resting at Jack's feet.

"Don't even think it!" Jack said, snatching it away. Just to rub in his victory, he raised the bottle to take a drink, but hesitated at the monkey's pleading gaze that followed his hand. "What? This?" He held up the bottle in question, and chuckled. "Sorry, mate. You can't drink this. You're cursed, remember?"

The monkey's head sunk to its chest, and averted his eyes.

"It's your own bloody fault," Jack huffed then pointed an accusing finger. "We all know there's only one way that could happen."

He allowed the monkey to fill in the rest of his meaning. Both of them, plus Barbossa and many others were acutely aware of the curse brought upon anyone—including monkeys, apparently—that was to remove a coin from the Treasure of Cortez. It had taken a ten year quest for the entirety of a fortune to be returned and the eternally damned to be returned to life, except for one… it would seem.

"What did you do with it?" Jack's question prompted the monkey looked off to the side, innocently rolling its eyes. "C'mon! Nothing more insufferable than a coy monkey. What did you do with it?"

The monkey resisted only for another moment then reluctantly reaching inside his jacket and produced a gold coin, with an emblem no one—no one that had been involved, at any rate—would mistake.

"I wouldn't go showing that about to just anyone," Jack warned. "Not everyone has the same impeccable scruples as meself; many wouldn't hesitate to take it. Although I suppose the joke would be on them," he added, a sly smile growing at that last thought.

Jack tipped up the bottle, and for all the world, it sounded as though the beast whimpered. Lowering the bottle, he looked down into a pair of large, brown begging eyes. Groaning, he visually scouted the rubble on the sill, finally twisting to retrieve the handless remnants of a horn spoon. Blowing it free of dirt, he sat up to reach between his legs and set it on the sill.

"Oh, all right, just a bit," he grumbled dribbling a bit into the makeshift cup. "All you're going to do is waste it; this is all we have," Jack said, holding the bottle up in illustration. "We have to make it last."

His namesake eagerly sidled closer as he poured, throwing him a questioning look at the scant amount that barely wetted the bottom of the cup.

"Don't be greedy; it's not a becoming trait. You've been hanging around Barbossa too long. You should be a bit more discrete in your selection of friends."

The monkey tentatively sidled closer, and extended its hand. Jack peered between his knees initially with skepticism, but then relented.

"All right, truce it 'tis," he said grudgingly, giving the tiny hand a two-fingered shake. "But mind, there's a probationary period here. I'll be keeping me eye on you; I've had enough treachery without taking it from the likes of you."

Jack watched approvingly at the loving care the monkey lifted his cup and pretended to drink, closing his eyes and smacking his lips in make believe.

"Nice to pretend at least, eh? Can't say I blame you. Truth be told, I've done a bit o' that meself over time.

Jack settled back comfortably against the bulkhead, the monkey roosting complacently next to Jack's boot, holding his cup in his lap.

"I heard her scream, you know," he said, scanning the room. "It was like her own flesh was being torn, same as mine, her planking popping as we were both crushed."

His mind drifted to thoughts that he didn't care to put words to.

Taking another drink, he saw the monkey from the corner of his eye holding up his cup with a hopeful look. "Gone already? You've been learning from Barbossa haven't you?" He clucked his tongue, gently scolding. The small bit he had initially poured was still there, but he opted to play along, and obligingly poured another bit, shaking his head. "Better slow down, else this will go to your head."

Jack swiveled his attention back to the _Pearl_, slowly shaking his head. "You'd think, in the midst of all this salvation, by some miracle she might have been healed. Clearly the powers that be aren't men of the sea." He sighed, taking a drink. "Scarred and torn she is; she'll be needing repairs, virtually a total refit, and soon."

_All things considered, it wasn't so bad. At least you went down with your ship. It's what you said you always wanted._

_Do you believe everything I say?_

"I've met me own decimation, and dealt with it, not entirely graceful, I'll grant you, but as well as anyone might. But this…" He waved to indicate the _Pearl_, his throat tightening. "This is almost more than anyone could bear."

"Look at her," he murmured in pained wonderment, an unspeakable pride welling as his gaze traveled from the busted out windows, separated doors, and splintered mizzenmast. "She has her scars, but she put up a valiant battle."

He scowled at the darkened, crusted streaks that spidered across the floor. "I can venture a guess as to what did that." He wrinkled his nose at the stench that rose from the boards, noticing how markedly familiar it was. "Stink, don't they?"

"I see he has that bloody chart out." Since he had left earlier in the day, a table had been brought in. Considerably smaller than its predecessor, it was blanketed with Barbossa's sacred chart. _Worst navigator that ever was to float._

"Can't bear the thought of those crud-encrusted claws of his on the wheel of me ship, no offense intended," he added in a semblance of a salute. _Have to do something about that—soon. _"Blessed little good that thing is going to do us. Off the map we are, sailing into a hole, a place marked as nowhere, and be damned for the doing."

A chill crept down his back, a certain precursor that Tia Dalma had to be near. Bloody woman! He could feel her eyes following him; no hiding anything from her.

No warmth their either, so belay that thought, too! Learned that long ag,o and at a hefty price.

Jack caught himself looking for the moon. There were no watch bells, that and the belfry victims of the destruction, too. The night felt young; he had time.

Time was palpable, he could feel it, ticking by, rolling as steadily as the waves past the _Pearl's_ hull. Eventually, he would have to find a way of stopping that time, but for now, it felt good; a pulse proved he was alive.

The clump of boots crunching glass broke his train of thought, Barbossa scuffing to a halt in the framework of the splintered doors, his arms casually crossed.

"Ye look like hell, Jack!" Always poking for that extra advantage, he announced it loudly enough for anyone on the aft sections of the ship to hear. "'Pears life doesn't agree with ye, either. Perhaps ye should consider a rest."

"Flattery will get you no where," Jack retorted, fluttering his lashes then sobered. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? So you can slip in under the cover of dark and steal me ship again?"

Barbossa rolled his eyes, spreading his arms in exhibition as he came in further. "It's already _my_ ship. What need would I be a-havin' to break in on your slumberin' repose?"

Barbossa's boots halted suddenly. Jack followed the line of his gaze to the sill, where his namesake laid sprawled on his side, his head pillowed on the toe of Jack's boot, with one arm flung over his face. Hector swiveled an accusing glare around on Jack, who casually shrugged.

"Can't hold his drink. I warned him."

Hector was one of those that had found he could make life much easier if he just killed someone he disliked right off, saving himself the trouble of going through the process of hating. It was shorter and easier for everyone one involved… well, except for the one lying dead. Jack suspected that somewhere deep inside the old pirate, there were a few redeeming shreds of humanity, whimpering in a corner, rarely allowed the light of day. There had been way too much water over the decks, for them to bury the hatchet anywhere, except in each other.

Aside from their similarities—both were captains, both were pirates, both had been dead, and now both were back—Jack preferred to think that there was a marked difference between them: morals. Jack had a moral center—at least a vague resemblance of one—and Hector had none. Hector kept to the Pirate's Code when it suited him, out of the fear that if he didn't, he would be mutinied or killed. Jack did so, because it seemed the right thing to do—mostly.

There but for the grace of God—and at least a base sense of right and wrong—go I," was his thought every time he looked at the man.

Jack peered a critical eye. In the dim light, it was difficult to see Hector's face fully, but there was every possibility that was just as well. Deception and deceit was all anyone was ever going to find there, anyway. He seemed to appear older and haggard, and not a little haunted.

"By my judgment," said Jack, "seems your side of Eternal wasn't much more agreeing. It would appear that Hell wouldn't have either one of us."

The concept appealed to Barbossa. "It could give a man an entirely different outlook," he grinned.

A strained silence fell between them, Hector frowning slightly in concern as he experimentally picked up the monkey's arm several times, and watched it limply drop.

Jack thoughtfully traced the cool shape of the rum bottle, frowning in his own right. "What was it like for you…where you were?"

Hector flinched and gave Jack a suspicious glare, then softened. "Cold," he said simply. "Dark, empty…and cold."

Jack nodded in sympathy, readily identifying with the hollowness in Hector's voice.

Hector moved closer, to prop his rear against an overturned trunk. "Believe you me, lad, I'd expected somethin' much more…"

"Dramatic?"

Their eyes locked for a moment, each searching the other; an understanding was found by both, and Jack grudgingly offered the bottle. Animosity made it difficult for them to speak of something so personal, and yet the mutual respect they held, captain to captain, made it possible.

Barbossa took the proffered bottle, arching a questioning brow. "A gift," was the only explanation Jack gave.

The simple ritual of drinking together cemented a bond. For the moment, companionably sharing the rum, they were both pirates, both captains, but equals in many other ways.

"Aye," Hector finally surrendered, with a wry smile. "Dramatic could be a word. I never was inclined toward expectin' horns and angels, but I did look for someone to come a'greetin' at either door."

Absent-mindedly kicking at a pile of broken pottery, the elder fell quiet. "It was cold," he said at length, his voice strained. "Dark, and cold, and… nothing." There was a degree of disappointment in that, as if there had been expectations that weren't met. "No place, nor meaning. No fires. No pain. Just… nothin'." He looked up at Jack from under his brows. "And for you?"

Jack shifted, a bit uncomfortable at the thought. "Eh… crowded." He didn't care to elaborate past that.

Barbossa leaned forward, his eyes lit with interest. "Not many have faced the Locker and lived to tell the tale. There be plenty o' souls at sea, with more than a passin' interest, to learn of what might be a'waitin' there."

Jack scoffed at Hector's transparent attempt to glean information. It was not an inherent interest there for the greater good of sailors. It would be a staggering first, for Barbossa to be interested in anything other than his own barnacle-ridden ass.

Jack gave a casual flap of a hand. "Trifles. A minor inconvenience."

Both sensed a presence, and they turned their heads in unison toward the door where Tia Dalma stood. They waited, shifting uncomfortably under her black, lingering stare. Mute, she turned and faded into the inked shadows.

Hector turned a curious eye toward Jack. "What's to be done about her, Jack? She's a pestilence, a splinter what needs pullin'."

"Some splinters are best left to work themselves free. She's done neither of us harm. Fact o' the matter is, it's by her hand and good graces that either one of us are standing here." He paused, a taunting smile growing. "Especially you, by my understanding."

Hector's eyes shifted away as he stepped to one of the gaping windows, meditatively flexing one hand open and closed, over and over, against his leg.

"I prefer to be a man of me own destinies. Ye've a point to that eternity thing, Jack," he said after a time. "If a man were to play his cards right, dyin' might not have to be his only option."

"Seen the light, have you?"

"In a way o' speakin'." Nothing could be scarier than Hector Barbossa trying to play coy.

"Like I said, neither of us has to worry about trumpets or halos, or bein' fitted for wings. And I'm not seein' the other direction as any great offer either."

"Then what else is there?" Two could play the coy game.

"A third, to be sure." Hector turned back, looking like a cat with a mouthful of canary, fit to burst with something that he had little intention of revealing.

With little else to pass the time, Jack opted to play along, continuing the game of cat and mouse that had been going between them for years. _No reason to stop now. One never knows what one might stumble across. _"You've the sound of a man with a plan."

"Mebbe." Hector came closer, picking up the limp monkey with surprising tenderness and cradled it in the crook of his arm.

Jack's interest was only mildly piqued. Even if he played along and asked, the only thing he would receive for his efforts would be a lie. He wasn't in the mood.

"One does wonder if Ponce de Leon had it right," sighed Jack with enough innocence to reveal he knew much more than he was letting on.

Barbossa's rheumy-glazed eyes briefly widened at being discovered. It hadn't been a difficult connection between the dots: a man running from death, an ancient chart and the Fountain of Youth, prompted by the notation he had seen on the map: _Agua de Vida, 1523._

"Folklore and legends." Jack leaned his head back against the bulkhead, and closed his eyes. "People have been tearing about these waters for centuries looking for that."

Stroking Jack's fur, Barbossa dramatically considered Jack's conjecture. "Could be they just didn't have the right bit o' information." He searched Jack's face for how much he might know, looking it see if he had risen to the bait. He didn't

Jack wasn't worried; Barbossa's plot was an interesting wrinkle, but of minor consequence. It was no surprise that Barbossa would be planning alternatives; no reason why a crooked mind should suddenly go straight at this late date. After this was all over, Barbossa could spend the rest of what days he had left chasing about looking for something that never existed. _Not as if he's the first, and certainly not about to be the last._

"And said bit of salient information is in your hands?" Jack asked skeptically.

Hector tried not to, but couldn't help glancing over his shoulder, where the chart was spread on the table. "Think about it, Jack." His enthusiasm grew, his fingers moving faster through the inert monkey's fur. "To be young again, start all over. To know then, what we know now, we could be rich!"

Jack snorted, and took a drink, swishing it in his mouth before swallowing. "It's not some doorway to the past, going through like you were on your way to a tea. Just some… elixir, or some such something," he finished with a sweep of the bottle. "No one knows, because no one's ever found it."

"Or, so we think." Hector winked to punctuate the import of his insight. "I sense you be a man with a plan, as well."

Rolling the bottle between his palms, Jack lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "One does what one must."

He tilted his head to an imaginary sound, bearing a smile that would have done a snake proud. "I think I hear _my_ crew a-callin'."

He turned and left, with as much dignity as a man could with a drunken, passed out monkey cradled in his arms.

**Kate** stood on the isolated stretch of beach, not seeing the bay or the town on the other side, her focus solely on the horizon. The waves lapped at her shoes, and dragged her at her skirts. The tide was coming in; she needed to move—sometime. Occasionally a gull would light nearby, examining her in anticipatory interest.

_Sorry, I'm not ready to be eaten yet._

Throwing its head back, and voicing its raucous disappointment, the bird flew off, only to return later.

Kate vacillated between perpetual motion, afraid of what would happen if she stopped, to sitting stone-like for untold amounts of time, staring. She had sufficient self-awareness to know that what she was doing wasn't normal, or healthy, and that something would have to be done.

For reasons that required no explanation, she was drawn to the sea, standing and staring at the brilliant depths. The water was her tenuous connection between two drifting, anchorless beings; if Jack were alive, he would be near the sea, and through that, she was touching him. Time had become a minor annoyance that she paid little heed. Each wave that touched her feet washed away a little more of her; she felt as if she were slowly melting into the sand, never to be seen again.

Kate knew it was too much to hope for, to see a black ship with black sails round the headlands, and pull into the harbor. But to not hope was to give up, and she couldn't do that… not yet.

She was living a horror that she had vowed never to revisit again, and recognized too readily the wooden feeling of going through the motions of life, without living it, the people around her flat as shadows on a wall, non-dimensional entities that moved their mouths, but she heard nothing.

Disjointed and disconnected, she felt as if she were a distant observer, like a parrot perched in the corner, mechanically echoing whatever was said. Unable to think of the future, the past being gone, she existed in a single, eternal day, a wall of numbness to keeping the world at bay.

It was a small blessing that crying no longer came so easy; there were no more tears left. As difficult as tears were, words came with even more difficulty. There was nothing to say, nothing that anyone seemed to be able to understand.

"_Dieu dans le ciel! _Kate!"

The urgent shout jerked Kate to reality. Twisting to look over her shoulder, she found Marguerite behind her, standing as closely as she dared without soaking her shoes.

"I have been calling and calling!" She implored the sky with one hand while at the same time scrambling backward from an incoming wave. "Did you not hear me?"

"Emm… no," stammered Kate, disoriented by finding someone there.

"I knew I would find you here. This isn't healthy," Marguerite pleaded from her distance. "You must do something, or…"

"Or what?" Kate choked through lips stiffened by disuse. "People will think I'm crazy? They'll begin to talk? I've already been the crazy woman that lives in the attic, that children run from."

"Then you know how important it is for you to do something to help yourself." Gasping in frustration, Marguerite kicked off her shoes and waded to Kate's side. Her eyes darkened with worry, she cupped Kate's cheek, her hand surprisingly warm. "Give up, _mon petit._ He's gone," she said with gentleness never before seen.

"No, I can't."

"Jack Sparrow is not worth this."

Kate flinched at Marguerite's blunt assessment, but it wasn't the first time to hear such opinions. "How can you be so sure? Did you know him that well? Did he come here that much?"

It was an unspoken matter that always hung between the two of them. Several of the whores in the house were less guarded about their experiences with Jack seemingly unmindful of the pain it cost Kate. In some instances, Kate sensed a bit of jealousy, which only lead her to wonder even more about his escapades.

"He was here many times—and yes, I … _knew_ him." Marguerite discomfort at that admission was surprising.

Kate snorted, her apprehensions confirmed. "I had half expected him to go racing over there before he left. He didn't, did he?" She looked to Marguerite, fearful of the answer.

"No, I haven't seen Jack in a long while." Marguerite's honesty was revealed through her steady look. If she had harbored any wistfulness, she had hidden it very well. "Jack is who he is. You've said yourself, you think him dead; no one seems to have seen him in nearly a year. You have to give up."

"I can't." Kate hunched her shoulders, pulling away. "A part of me knows that he's dead, but another part screams that he isn't."

"Those are desperate hopes, _mon cher_."

"Call them what you will, but I can't just give up. If I give up, then I have nothing, and I can't go back to that. I'll go crazy for sure."

"No one should tie that much hope on Jack. You and I know he is many things," she said, giving Kate a motherly hug, her warmth and softness a glorious comfort. "Many which can make a woman's heart sing, but dependable, or faithful he is not."

"I know. I know! My God, you think I don't know?" Kate was unable to glean the desperate bitterness from her voice.

From the time she had allowed Jack into her life—barged his way in, truth be told—she had been thoroughly honest with herself as to what and who he was, and had tried to be careful of high-soaring hopes. The realities were no less harsh, however, and she flogged herself to be hopelessly engulfed in Jack's charms.

Marguerite tactfully opted for a different approach. "You were doing so much better, there for a little while. And now…"

"I know," moaned Kate, painfully aware that Marguerite wasn't saying anything different than what she had told herself dozens of times. "Because I thought he was gone, but now… It's just… just… give me a little longer… please."

Marguerite's mouth pressed into a firm line, one blonde brow arched. "You mean, give Jack a little longer."

Slumping, Kate dropped her head, kicking at the damp sand bared between the waves. "Either way."

Marguerite's hand came to rest gently on Kate's shoulder. It was startlingly warm, a reflexive tremor passing through her. Marguerites frown deepened at that. "You're shivering, and your lips are blue."

Gone unnoticed before, Kate clutched her arms around herself, hoping to quell the tremors that were coming faster than the waves pressing at her legs, one rolling over the top of the first.

"You've been living on brandy and bread for months," continued Marguerite, holding up a hand to quell Kate's protest. "_Naturellement__, _I have been watching."

Kate looked down at her hands, as if they were someone else's. She had to concede to Marguerite's observations, they were near skeletal, the skin taught over the protruding bones. She couldn't remember what being hungry felt like then recalled a night at the tavern, Jack's eyes glowing in the candlelight, while she ate both of their meals.

"And now, you'll catch your death in this rain," Marguerite clucked her tongue, fussing over her. "And I will be blamed for not keeping my _filles_ in the best of health."

"Is it raining?" Kate asked remotely.

When Marguerite had first arrived, Kate had dimly noticed the umbrella, and Marguerite's water-draggled hair, and sodden hemline, but the fact that it was raining hadn't registered. Her hand shook so hard, she could barely push back a wet snake of hair, as she looked up, her face numb to the droplets' pattering. Now, she noticed the pockmarks on the water, and that the horizon had faded into the line of gray, low-scudding clouds. For the first time, she felt chilled and wet, the water trickling down her back and underneath her stays.

"Just a little longer." She and Marguerite both knew she was referring to something more than just remaining on the beach. "Please, just a little longer."

"One week," Marguerite warned, with a rigid finger. "And then we go to Ma Mère, whether you wish it, or no."


	34. Chapter 34: And So, We Must Go to War

**Chapter Thirty-four: "And so, we go to war!"**

**Teague** walked away, leaving Jack half-stunned, his mother's shrunken head dangling from his fingers, and Teague's parting words still ringing in his ears.

"Take 'er, boy. She'll have no more truck with me." The curmudgeon's black eyes had actually softened. "You'll soon learn, lad, the only peace a man can find is in a woman's arms."

The distraction allowed Elizabeth to be almost upon him, before he saw her pushing her way through the roused throng. Tucking the string into his belt, Jack tried to dodge away, but to no end.

"Your Nibs," he said, with a mocking bow, finally surrendering.

Elizabeth stammered, the gesture catching her off guard, but quickly recovered, raising her chin. "I wanted to speak to you."

In an exaggerated display, Jack looked around, and then raised his arms at his sides, the pirate celebration behind him already degenerating into a fight. "Here I am!"

She took a breath, but then caught sight of several men nearby curiously lending an ear. Jack dragged his feet as she steered him away, reluctant to be anywhere that smacked of alone with her.

"I wanted to speak with you," she began again, halting away from anyone's earshot.

"You said that." He shifted uneasily; his plan didn't include this.

Equally awkward, Elizabeth stiffened. "Thank you, Jack."

Now, he was the one to be caught off guard. He had been expecting any number of things, but nothing that resembled this, and couldn't help but sidle away. "For what?"

"For putting your faith in me."

He stifled a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself too much, darling. I trusted you only to do exactly what you wanted, because you wanted it—and you did. I'll have to hand it to you, you never let reason or logic stand in your way."

She rocked back, baffled by his apparent failure to grasp the situation. "We need to fight for our freedom."

_Ah, the innocent are always the easiest to lead._ The young made such wonderful crusaders, so easily born away on the crest of patriotism, for whatever the cause. That determined freshness of resolution was what it took to prevail, the inability to conceive of failure, success being the only possible path. It remained to be seen if such would be the case this time.

Elizabeth's transformation was complete, from fairy princess, to avenging storm eagle, the Princess of Port Royal now the King of the Brethren Court. Ambition oozed from her every pore. This was more than a quest to save a way of life, clinging to a world to which she had barely been anointed, but now wore it with the same verve as her sword. The change had been a bit of a shock; such a precipitous fall in such a short time had been unexpected. Barbossa had to have had a large hand in it, to his mind. Who else could drag someone down the moral spiral so completely, and so quickly?

"Careful, darling, you're beginning to sound like Barbossa already. It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? You do it your way, and I'll do it mine."

"Then I'm forgiven?" There was an eager hopefulness in her eyes.

Jack pulled free of her grasp and stepped back, disquieted by the sheer nearness of her.

"Haven't we been over this before? You killed me, Lizzie." He took satisfaction in seeing her flinch at that. "What, in your extensive list of experiences, leads you to believe that I would be willing to forgive that? You did what you thought you must, and I understand. But understanding and forgiving are two entirely different matters."

The guilt was still there—a little taste of Purgatory by her own hand—darting and ducking glances whenever he was within sight. _If you're going to kill someone, darling, at least have the conviction to look him in the eye._

Elizabeth's doubts were a pleasing sight, a sign that she still harbored a glimmer of compassion. He didn't fancy himself as being the only life she had taken, although he did envy the ones who had gotten the benefit of her blade, rather than her kiss.

"This is no game, darling. When you tire of it, you don't just go in the house, and switch to playing with dolls. One person lives, because another one dies, holding his innards as they spill out on the deck.

"Me? I do it because I must, as we all do. Aye, I've learned to love this, because it gave me what I wanted most_._ It was a means to an end, when there were no other means to be had."

Her cheeks flared with hurt and anger, and she looked away, the muscles in her jaw flexing.

"In exchange for said existence," Jack went on. "I'll be dying as one, because there are no old pirates. We go until either a blade stops us, or we can go no more, surrendering whatever soul might remain to the sea. And blessed little soul there will be, because you sell it on a daily basis."

With any amount of luck, tomorrow he would be dying to live eternally, but that she didn't need to know.

"So, if it's pirate you want, o' Sovereign of the Brethren Court, then it's pirate you shall have. But mind, you're a woman trying to be a man, in a man's world. That's a tall order, and highly improbable at succeeding."

It was no challenge to see that Elizabeth had a way of entering a room, as if everyone were looking at her—which they most likely were, most especially now. Every one of the Pirate Lords and their cortege were eyeing her, watching for that first sign of weakness, the chink in her armor. She did it too, whether she realized it or not, assessing very person she encountered, sorting them into her various categories of usability.

"Mistress Chin managed." She fell into the familiar habit of jerking her head, to toss her hair back, but so tightly bound, there was none there to be tossed.

He had only seen Elizabeth once in her Port Royal splendor, coiffed, powdered, corseted and regal at her fiancé's elbow. She was a sight to behold, and more is the pity she didn't understand the power of that. Meeting a man straight on was a losing proposition. But as a woman, with the tilt of the head, a purse of the lips, a slight sway of the hips and a velvet murmur in the ear, she could lead any man to his destruction.

Perhaps it was best for all mankind if she didn't comprehend.

"Ah, yes." Jack scanned the crowd, ultimately finding the person in question, pugnaciously squared before Villanueva, her head barely visible amid her towering retainers.

"Now there's one to be modeling yourself after. Are you willing to do what she did?" He arched a dubious brow, waiting for the response. "She's a black widow; killed her mate, virtually eating him, along with two sons."

The level of treachery and betrayal involved in that escapade still astounded him. Glancing at the new King, he was painfully aware of how closely to the surface laid those same traits; he was a first-hand expert on that.

"At least she had the decency to do it by her own hand, rather than sending someone to do her dirty work for her."

Deep down, in a moment of fleeting honesty, he had hoped that Elizabeth would be spared the hard lessons, such as Kate had endured. Jack had often wondered what it would have been, to have known Kate before she had been hardened. It was a stretch to imagine her being as fresh and naïve as Elizabeth. It wasn't right for any person—man or woman—to have to survive what had been visited upon Kate; a lesser woman would have crumbled. Elizabeth had that same strength, untapped but undeniable, bordering on overbearing at times. Heaven help any man that got in her way. Trifles such as the East India Trading Company or Lord Cutler Beckett certainly weren't going to slow her down.

The shattering of glass drew their attention, one of Jocard's men brandishing the jagged remnants of a bottle into the face of one of Chevalle's. The quarters were too close for swords, but knives, sleeve pistols, and cudgels were made for such situations, the floor growing slick with the blood spewing from gashes, gouges, broken noses, slip lips and broken teeth.

"They're barbarians," she shouted over the chaos, wearing the same contemptuous, stunned look she had worn at the beginning of the Court.

"Pirates! Not a pretty picture," he said just as one elbowed another in the mouth, while another bellowed in pain as his finger was bitten off.

Jack turned to leave, but was stopped by Elizabeth's hand on his arm. She bit her lower lip, one brow going up. He knew that look; she was becoming an open book to him, every move an advanced warning. She was brewing, trying to find a way to exert or justify her demands. His respect for Weatherby Swann had grown; she must have been quite the handful as a child.

"So, what do I do now?" Elizabeth's brow furrowed with uncertainty, under the brim of her hat. "After… when this is all over, can I depend on you to help?"

Jack sputtered a laugh loud enough to draw the attention of several men nearby. "Hardly! You have Dear William to play consort. Count me out; I'll be as far away from this hellhole as one can manage."

"But, how will I know…?"

"Ah, be careful what you wish for, eh?" Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward Teague, hunched in his chair over his guitar. "Talk to him; he's as crafty as they come, and your only hope. Just don't let yourself be caught in a room alone with him; he's quicker than he looks. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a ship to attend."

He glanced dispassionately at the brawling. "I suggest you see to your subjects. At the moment, it would seem they are more inclined toward killing each other rather than the enemy."

A broken bottle rolled past his feet, and he bent to retrieve it, sketching another mocking bow as he presented it to her. "You scepter, Your Eminence."

Jack left as the crescendo of the fisticuffs increased. Turning to walk backwards, he spread his arms out at his sides, shouting to her over the din, "Welcome to our world!"

Fists curling at her sides, Elizabeth shouted after him, but was it lost in the melee. Shaking his head, Jack gave a dismissive wave, and kept walking.

Gibbs caught Jack up as he pushed his way along the perimeter of the calamity. He didn't need to hear what Gibbs had to say; it was written on his face clear enough for anyone.

"Cap'n, I've seen ye do many a thing, some of which I even saw the wisdom of your ways. But this... Are ye sure this is what ye should be wantin?"

"Of course, it 'tis! It's exactly what I should be _wantin'_!" He was beginning to weary of having to explain himself, most of all to his First Mate. "I'm giving a person what they want, obliging them to me fullest, at the expense of me own opportunities."

"Never knowed you much to be inclined towards such ambitions."

"Never was," Jack said with a casual flip of the hand. He jerked Gibbs out of the way, just as someone was hurled headlong into the wall. Adroitly dodging an erratic dagger hurtling toward them, Jack urged Gibbs further around the edge of the hall.

"Can't imagine trying to rule this wretched lot. Look at them! Like a bunch of sharks awaiting their next meal; can't decide which one of themselves to eat first."

"Aye, but war? And then what?"

"And then, we all go back to doing what ever it was we were doing—except for a few of us, who will be doing... something else."

Jack squinted through the thick air at Elizabeth was on the opposite side, screaming futilely at one man from Ching's flock bent on strangling another from Sumbhajee's.

"Just look at her, reigning over her domain as we speak! Need a different hat, though. That one is ridiculous; no one can demand respect wearing something like that one their head."

Jack caught sight of several curiously looking on, and steered Gibbs further, out of the room, to the portico that connected the hall with the town. Given the fevered pitch of the crowd, he was well aware a naysayer could bring a great deal of harm upon himself, or spark aspirations of conspiracy with someone equally disgruntled. Either way, he wanted no part.

"She's just an upstart," Gibbs pleaded. "She has no idea as to how to control this lot."

Jack rolled his eyes at that dubious prospect. "I'll allow you the privilege of breaking that bit of news to her, and then you can let me know how it goes, _if_ you're still able."

"She hasn't a clue what to do." Gibbs' concern was growing. "They'll eat her alive."

"Then maybe she'll finally know what that feels like." Visions he didn't want to visit came tumbling back; they had a nasty was of ambushing him at the least convenient moment. Ignoring Gibbs' puzzled frown, he shook them off.

"You heard her as well as I—hell, the whole room heard her—put her name out as candidate. Blind ambition, Gibbs, it's an ugly and often unfortunate thing for all involved. I have but fulfilled her wishes. If she wants pirates, then she's bloody well welcomed to them. Teague will protect her, because he can use her; he'll play her like that wretched guitar of his, until she's of no more use."

"What could Teague possibly gain? He's already the Keeper."

He might have been out of sight, but Jack could feel the Teague's hawk eyes following him, boring into his back, and judging his every move. Nothing had changed on that count.

"Which puts him in charge of a book," Jack said pointedly. "To many, power is a cruel mistress, always demanding more, and Teague has never been known for saying 'No' to a woman. He knows he could never be _King_ Teague, but he can certainly pull the strings on King Swann. And more's the better. When this gaggle of lunatics finally tire of her, due to all the foolishness Teague will put her up to, they'll blame her, and be looking for her neck, not his. To his mind, where's the loss?"

Conceding to the presence of listening ears and prying eyes, Jack urged Gibbs away from the hall all together, trading the din of the mob scene inside for the riotous clamor of the streets.

Land or sea, nothing spread faster than the word of war; the town was already afire with feverish excitement. Already jammed to the point of making one wonder why the town didn't sink, the street was a jostle of wild-eyed exultant pirates, brandishing bottles and weapons with equal abandon.

"Street" was a generous word for the broad path that went through town, a treacherous series of switchbacks wending its way down to the waterfront, the moisture-laden air slicking the stones. The track meandered through an accumulation of centuries of buildings and storefronts that jammed every available space.

The Cove had a feel of timelessness about it. For Jack as a boy, it had been a seething anthill of evil, but in many ways, the place wasn't as bad as he remembered. He hadn't walked those streets since he was thirteen. Then it had been a place filled with strange and foreboding faces, an intensification of everything he despised, a symbol of all the reasons he had left, vowing never to return. Now, the wood was a little more rotted, the catwalks between the buildings a little more slanted, and the air a little more foul with debauchery, but for all intents and purposes, it hadn't changed.

"Kinda like hidin' behind a woman's skirts, isn't it?" Gibbs bore the look of a person learning someone he thought highly of had feet of clay.

"Except our stellar highness wears none," Jack shouted over the crowd's jubilation, "and goes to every extent, to prove she's otherwise. Ergo, she's not one, or less so, at any rate, which renders the entire business that much more palatable. She'll have Turner; when the time comes, he'll have to step up to the occasion."

Gibbs face clouded, shaking his head as he sought to grasp the convolutions. "Seems a thin bet. Aye, well, 'tis a temporary title anyway," he qualified, finding a bit of reassurance in that.

"I'll allow everyone else to explain that. I shan't be around."

As relieved as Jack had been to leave Shipwreck, and as reluctant has he had been to return, it was still difficult not to scan the crowd, looking for familiar faces. The Cove was no place for families, but there had been a few children his own age, and he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to them. He had heard rumors of some, and had actually met up with one in Ranter's Bay, blind, missing a leg and pox-mad._ Ah, the good life! _

Winding their way down the street, in and out of the circles of dim illumination cast by the lamps and faggots, Jack tried to ignore the disquieting feel of his mother's head bobbing against his leg. In an odd way, he felt the better for her company, in spite of the painful awareness that she would have never approved of what he had become.

Sorry, Mum. We both seemed to be nasty victims of fate.

The gathering of pirates had crammed the harbor with ships, leaving the town to scramble to fulfill their demands. Now, men spilled from the doorways of both the taverns and the fortunetellers, the faces of the young frozen with fear, while the older ones were grim with the knowledge of what was to come. Most remarkable was the absence of street whores; all busy, more than likely. Some men turned to drink for their final consolation, while others turned to a woman.

"_The only peace a man can find is in a woman's arms." _For once, Jack couldn't argue with Teague's insight, but there would be no peace for him that night.

A growing rumble alerted Jack, and he grabbed Gibbs by the arm, to pull him clear of the path of a runaway cask. "Most emphatically and significantly," Jack went on, watching the cask part the crowd, shouts of alarm marking its path downhill, "did you get the rum?"

Gibbs nodded, gulping in relief from his near misfortune. "Should be aboard by now, Cap'n."

Jack nodded, pleased to have someone about with a correct sense of priorities. The two continued their circuitous path through the throngs, ducking and dodging between the drays, wagons, and handcarts.

"Besides, tomorrow the world's going to be a different place, eh?" Jack derived his own reassurance in that. "If we can hand Beckett his ass on a platter, then all will be right."

"Is that what this is all about? Beckett? You're willin' to bring on an entire war, just to get at him?"

"Can you think of a better way? C'mon, Gibbs, everyone has something to gain. Mine's just a little more... personal. Surely you don't think I give a bloody damn about a bunch of pirates?"

"I don't know what you think, anymore, Jack," Gibbs shouted over the rumble of wheels on the cobblestones.

"Four things, very simple," Jack began, ticking each one off on his fingers, "Kate, the _Pearl_, Beckett as dead as possible, as soon as possible, and me, alive forever to enjoy it all forever."

"You are going to replace Jones?" Gibbs goggled, halting against the press of the crowd.

"Stroke of brilliance, isn't it?" Jack beamed, pulling Gibbs along. "Having the _Dutchman_ on our side tomorrow can't be all bad, eh?"

"But, Jack, you'll be... dead."

"No, I'll be very _not dead_, a significant and not minor difference." He was only mildly put off by Gibbs' inability to grasp his genius. "When Beckett goes down with his ship tomorrow—which he most certainly will—I want to be the one waiting for him." He nearly giggled with anticipation. "Imagine his expression, when the first face he sees is mine, waiting to take him to his final reward… with a slight detour along the way."

The crush of people intensified as they neared the docks, draft animals, bearers, pushcarts and wagons jamming the narrow spaces, loading and unloading everything from chickens to gunpowder, tar to coffee, tallow, ship's biscuit, shot, firewood, dried fish and beef, oranges, apples and rice, the tender barge loading with the stuffs of war. Hawkers barked their wares from every corner and nook, selling everything from meat pies to charms.

It was an armada, a floating army, which would be setting off at dawn; no one could foresee how long the conflict might last. A day could be a reasonable guess, if all went well, but if the pirates broke and ran—unlikely, but still a contingency that had to be taken into account—pursuit could last for months, even years, given Beckett's bent for perseverance. A captain who wished to remain as such didn't dare haul anchor without full stores.

On a more practical note, it was a well-known axiom that war was good for business, and business was indeed booming. But following the battle, an even larger battle loomed: who was going to pay for all this? Jack laughed loudly enough to draw a strained look from Gibbs_. Her Queenship's problems were just beginning._

In a seaman's ballet, they marched their way across the flotilla of dinghies, dories and longboats, locating the _Black Pearl's_ with the same sense of recognition as a hen recognizing her own chicks amid a flock. Gibbs settled comfortably to the oars, and they pushed away.

Eased considerably by the proximity of water and his ship, Jack's thoughts drifted, only vaguely aware of the ships they wove between, his eyes set for only one. Just as it happened every time he had been away from her, whether it be for an hour or a month, his heart caught when the_ Pearl's_ bow finally poked into view. It was no different than his reaction when he would catch an unexpected glance of Kate, his goods coming to instant attention.

God, to have her there, now! She, more than anyone, would understand what it was to face battle, to know the horrors that would come with the next sun.

And to have her in the middle of all this? I think not!

"Gibbs, during all that time that I was…" He paused to clear the catch in his throat. This was a bit awkward. "Gone, did you ever deliver that letter I gave you, to give to Mr. Kate?"

A bit sheepish, Gibbs shook his head. "No, sir. The time never came. We wuz a bit pre- occupied, what with rescuin' you, an' all."

"No worries, mate. It's just as well. It's an entirely different matter now."

He gazed lovingly across the night-glittered waters as the _Pearl_ loomed closer, her silhouette sharp against the golden lights of the town and the ships' lamps. "She's battered and torn, Gibbs, but her spirit's still whole, and strong. She'll respond to a firm hand and a good heart. Help Kate; be there for her. With you at her side, the crew will yield."

Gibbs didn't need to look to see what Jack was referring to; it was a given. "T'isn't the same crew, Cap'n. They don't know 'er like the rest of 'em."

"Oh, they will," Jack said, fully confident. "She'll win them over. One look with those eyes, or that smile, or a touch of her hand..." His voice faded, his thoughts going in directions he knew he'd best not go.

"This is foolish," Gibbs grunted, pulling at the oars, rounding the bow of Villanueva's _Centurion_. "Ye speak as if yer not goin' to be about."

"If all goes to plan—if I get what I want—I won't. But it will be what I want—because I can't have what I really want, so this will be what I want instead. Don't let her come after me. She'll try." He smiled at the mental image of Kate, when her blood was up. "God knows, once she sets her mind, there will be hell to pay to get her to change it. But you've got to stop her."

Gibbs nodded reluctantly, as he guided the longboat alongside the _Black Pearl's_ hull.

Jack realized that earlier he had asked Gibbs to bring Kate to him, but perhaps discretion might be wiser, at least until he was clearer on what this whole _Dutchman_ thing involved. There seemed to be a bit of confusion on the terms of service, but he saw that as room for negotiations, whatever the circumstances might prove to be. Still, he had no intention of putting Kate in jeopardy. Jones had become akin to a monster; he would never allow Kate to be exposed to that. There were cautioning voices, but he opted to ignore them. It didn't matter what he did; they were never satisfied anyway.

"Just tell her," Jack said, reaching for the mooring ring. "I'll find her—if I can—maybe—in ten years, at least."

"You expect she'll wait?"

Jack snorted as he secured the boat. "Not bloody likely. She has too much to give; she was never intended to sleep alone. If all goes south, take her to Thomas; he fancies her, she fancies him."

"Jack." Gibbs' hand on his arm stopped him as Jack reached for the steps. "This is no way to be getting' what yer lookin' for."

"And what, pray tell, in your humble opinion, am I looking for?"

"'Pears to me, mebbe, you don't know anymore. I'm thinkin' tis likely some part of you is still back in the Locker."

"I'm the same man, Gibbs, just rearranged a bit, that's all. You have your orders, Mr. Gibbs. Our liege has spoken! Just carry out me requests. That's all I ask."

**The** night waters of Shipwreck Cove echoed with the voices and sounds of jubilation. The word of war had spread with wildfire speed, and every pirate was dizzy with euphoria.

Preparations aboard the _Black Pearl_ were well underway; Gibbs' periodic bellowing assured Jack of that without having to look: weapons cleaned, checked and rechecked, powder and shot stockpiled, gun decks cleared, sails wetted and blades honed, all performed in the buzz of the fever-pitch of battle.

There will be no sleep tonight. At this rate, by morning, no one will be fit to fight, the pounding in their heads doing more damage than the Company cannon.

Jack reclined on the _Pearl's_ bowsprit, his head pillowed on the gammoning. Staring at her widespread arms, a rum bottle dangled from one hand, the celebratory gunshots and rejoicing fading into a dim backdrop.

The evening breeze brushed his cheek, carrying the smell of the open sea from beyond Devil's Throat. He reached out with each of his senses, and wondered which ones he would enjoy no more. The Locker had made him sharply cognizant of such losses, and he still felt barely alive. Surely, he would be allowed the gentle bob of his ship as she sat on her moorings, but what of the thrill of feeling her under sail? He took a drink, and swished it in his mouth, committing its taste to memory, the heat that surged through his limbs, and the peace it brought.

The thump of his heart in his chest would be no more, or would it? Does the Master of the _Dutchman_ necessarily have to be heartless? Jones was so only out of his own wretchedness, over-reacting to the perfidious vagaries of a woman. He had to admit the act didn't seem nearly as outlandish and incomprehensible as when he had first learned of it. Now, considering all that he could be losing, his heart would be torn out already; locking it up would just be a formality.

For Kate, he would surrender it all.

No matter. If all went to plan, the East India Trading Company will be broken;sea battles were nasty business; certainly Beckett would be killed, but arrangements could be made on that matter, especially once he headed the _Dutchman_.

"And I'll be there," he murmured aloud. "Waiting for the bastard, mine for an eternity, by all accounts." His mind reeled with the possibilities, the restitution he could exact from Beckett's quivering carcass.

Aye, Beckett had wronged him, but only as a result of his own acts. He would take his satisfaction in Kate's name, and the egregious wrongs done to her. If it hadn't been for Beckett, he never would have had to make his deal with Jones. If it hadn't been for what it was between he and Beckett, Kate would have never become a pawn in Beckett's game. He had made a pledge to her, but he had agreed only in the spirit of allowing her peace of mind; she would never have healed, otherwise.

In the meantime, timing was everything; he would have to get to that wretched heart with all haste. After that, it would be a simple matter of taking over as the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_; as he saw it, there was certainly room for negotiations there, as well. Kate would be on the _Black Pearl_, and they could sail the seas together for an eternity.

Brethren Court? Why not? It was only the precipitating facilitator.

Pirate war? It was only a means to an end.

No land, but once every ten years. That bit seemed a bit unclear; he saw that as only an opportunity to make better arrangements. Still, there were no worries. What he sought most would be at sea: his two ladies. Granted, there had been rumors of a shortage of rum, but those had only been… rumors. He had learned long ago that there was always a way around any unpleasantry. No reason to believe providence would desert him now.

All he needed was his ship… and his Kittie—forever.

He stroked the smooth wood underneath his back_. No worries, luv. I'll be about. I need you to mind her for me; be there for her. Bring her to me and we'll sail an eternity._

_Immortality!_ He liked the sound of that; gave him a heady feeling that was better than bedding—well, almost.

What sense is there in being immortal, if you're the only one? Kate will grow old, the Pearl will be gone... and then what? It sounds like just another Hell.

_Trifles._


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-five**

**Kate** trudged up the path, the dirt dusting her shoes and hem in a fine, red film. It was a well-trodden trail; many had made the trip ahead of her. Angling ever upward from the shoreline, its gentle incline curved and weaved through the forest's shifting light, dappling the ground. With the breeze whirring through the feathery needles of the loblollies, and the metallic whine of the cicadas as a backdrop, it wasn't a difficult walk. In fact she had enjoyed leaving the town and Marguerite's house behind, pausing periodically to listen to the chattering of bright-colored flights of conures, or to watch the silent, aerial ballet of vivid butterflies amid the wildflowers.

Dabbing the sweat from her temples, Kate slowed at seeing what she supposed was her destination, a cabin overlooking the back bay of Sint Maarten, nestled in the airy shade of cercopias, an ancient wooden fence demarking the yard.

"Just follow the road; you can't miss it," had been Marguerite's instructions as she unceremoniously shoved Kate out the door. "Everyone knows Ma Mère."

Weathered but well-tended, the thatched-roofed house was a wooden-framed affair that had been whitewashed, at some time in its lengthy history. A porch dotted with battered stools and chairs ran along two sides of the small, squat building. Gardens abundant with vegetables, flowers and herbs showed the benefits of loving care, as well, stretching in three directions.

On the gate hung a primitive doll made of greens and sticks, with a grotesquely contorted face, carved out of something that could have been leather, or a very dried out melon.

"This has to be the place," she said aloud, comforted by the sound of a human voice, even if it were only her own.

Nervous, Kate reached past the odd ornament for the gate latch, and jerked back at seeing the handle was an animal's shinbone, the cloven hoof still attached. Preserved in a permanent, serviceable crook, the sun-bleached ivory was heavily carved with exotic images. Gathering her courage, she carefully pushed the gate open, the screech of the dry hinges piercing the pastoral quiet; a questioning bleat from one of the goats penned at the far side of the yard being the only response to her entry.

Chickens casually pecked the swept dirt, unmindful of Kate's skirts brushing their tail feathers, while a sow, glorious in motherhood as her shoats industriously nursed, lay half-hidden in the space under the house. The sound of bubbling water indicated that a spring was nearby, hidden in the deep shadows.

Kate's reception committee eyed her in mild curiosity over the top rail of their pen as she made her way across the yard. Amulets, magic eyes, and charms adorned the tree limbs and porch. A breeze stirred multicolored streamers, the hanging oddments tinkling in a clatter of glass, wood, shell and bone. White-painted stones were laid in diagrams and patterns, dotted with non-traditional crosses stuck in the dirt, identical to those seen around the yard.

Looking around, Kate's head came back to the doorway, and she gave a surprised yelp at finding a woman standing with her arms crossed. Her dress was a nut-brown homespun, the skirt showing hints of once being brightly striped. Seemingly African, her fine-featured rendered her nearly ageless, with skin the color of heavily creamed coffee, and bottomless gold eyes that seemed to be able to look straight though a person.

"I didn't hear you," Kate gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. The stern eyes were unimpressed. "I was told I might find Ma Mère here?"

"You can." The thickly island-accented voice held no hostility, but there was no welcome either. Her black hair was tightly-braided and pulled up severely; the brightly-colored strips of cloth that held them in place were the only thing that moved.

"Are you… she?" Kate asked cautiously. It struck her as unwise to irritate the very person she had come to ask a favor, although the woman gave the impression of having already existed in that state before Kate's appearance.

"I am."

_Victory number one. _"Marguerite sent me." Using the madam's name had been among the many of Kate's final directives.

The fact was that Kate was there under protest; Marguerite had insisted that either she come to the conjure woman for help, or face expulsion from the house.

To a degree, Kate understood the house matron's concerns. Kate had managed to stop crying—for the most part—and could carry on a conversation—for almost a minute or two, before her mind wandered off. She still couldn't sleep without a goodly amount of artificial encouragement: brandy, rum, whiskey, Muscat, sherry, or claret. She had made use of them all. A few times, stronger measures had been forcibly applied, poppy syrup or laudanum, but those had only resulted in nightmares, her screams waking the entire household, alarming the customers.

A few weeks earlier, Kate had managed to negotiate Marguerite for a bit more time, hoping for once it might be her friend. But her negotiated settlement had expired, and she was no closer to normalcy. And so, there she stood at the steps of a conjure woman, looking up into the hawkish-gold eyes, wondering what she ever thought she would find there.

"You work for Marguerite?" The words cracked the pastoral scene.

"Yes." There was no sense in lying or hedging, as uncomfortable as the question might be. It was a small community; everyone knew everything about everyone.

"So." Ma Mère's mouth took an unsympathetic curl. "You here to cure de pox, or slip a child?"

"Neither!" As affronted as she was by the woman's assumptions, they were simply an indicator of her role amid the population of Sint Maarten. Suddenly, Kate felt trivial and petty, for being there; so many others suffered from ailments and maladies with far more dire consequences than a broken heart. But Marguerite had sent her with a warning that she would not be allowed back in the house, without something to show for her trip.

"Then what you want?" The woman planted her hands on her hips, adding to her formidable appearance. "Speak up, child! De powers wait for no one."

"I can't sleep." Kate choked back the sob that came with that verbal admission. She took a deep breath, balling her fists at her side. "I can't sleep, and I can't eat, and I can't think, and I…"

Tears flooded her eyes with the relief of finally admitting her plight. She bit off her words, determined that she wasn't going to let this stranger see her cry.

Ma Mère's foreboding countenance softened, and she stepped down from the porch to Kate's side. "What is it, child? You lose a man?" She scoffed, chuckling softly. "Who has not? And you want a spell, to make de other woman ugly in his eyes?"

"No, it's not like that!" Kate burst. "I mean, yes, he left, but it's different," she rushed to add. "I know he's dead; I saw it. And yet, there's a part of me that says he isn't."

"Tell me how you know he's dead." She was cautious, but forceful, blocking Kate from shying from the issue.

"I saw it," Kate stammered haltingly. She had seen it, run it through her mind a dozen times a day, but now struggled to find the words to describe it. "A dream; he was being swallowed, eaten by this monstrous thing, and I was there with him. I felt it, every bit of it, and smelled it…"

"How many times you see this dream?"

"Just once," Kate said tentatively, unsure if that was good or bad.

Ma Mère only nodded, as if her suspicions had been confirmed. "And how do you know he lives?"

"I've seen that, too. It was another dream." Suddenly it all sounded so silly, and yet it was so visceral. "It was a beach, with the _Pearl_ anchored in the distance, and Jack was there, looking at me, as if…."

"Then he call you!" Ma Mère announced, as if it should be obvious to anyone. In that same moment, Kate could have sworn she had seen a glimmer of recognition at the mention of Jack's name, but her vision had been too tear-distorted to be sure.

Ma Mère closed her eyes, and pressed the flat of her hand over Kate's heart, only to jerk it away, swearing softly under her breath. "Such tortures!" She paused, gathering her composure, her countenance softening with a seer's wisdom. "He is strong within you."

"Then, he is alive?" Kate held her breath, afraid to hope, but more afraid to hear.

Ma Mère only shrugged, pursing her lips, her thought-laden frown fading at seeing Kate's worry. "Can't say. Cum inside."

"I only have a little money." Kate fumbled in her pocket, her vision still blurred by her tears.

"Now, now. We can worry about that later, eh?" She gave Kate a motherly pat on the arm, and a conspiratorial wink. "Marguerite sends her _filles de joie_ all de time. I'll just add it on her bill, and she'll never know de difference."

"Well, she did send me," Kate rationalized. "She claimed I was scaring away all the customers."

"Can't have that, can we?" Ma Mère mused, curving a guiding arm around Kate's shoulders to steer her inside.

Shadowy but airy, the cabin's interior was tidy, if one were able to look past the oddities that crammed the small space. Containers of clear and colored glass, wood, tin, porcelain, horn and leather burdened the worktables and shelves that lined two walls. Amid the bundles of dried herbs, jars and baskets, the desiccated bodies of animals—birds, bats, toads, snakes, mice, lizards—hung from the rafters, their eyes staring in blank wonderment. Some, along with their parts—feet, tails, legs, wings, feathers or skins—had been flattened to be almost beyond recognition. As Kate ducked through the low-hanging containers, she noticed they held collections of spiders, snakes, moths, butterflies, beetles and other things she didn't care to contemplate. The air was sweet with the scent of greenery and flowers, but overshadowed by the sharp acridness of things gone long since dead.

Ma Mère pointed Kate to a stool at one end of a table in the center of the room, her long fingers already dancing over the jars and bottles. Dutifully seated, Kate was able to look around. A parrot regarded her with a baleful eye from its roost on the back of a chair. Feeling other eyes, she looked up the find a monkey perched in the beams, its head screwing to one side as it peered down at her. A cot sat along one wall, its shabby blanket carefully arranged. There was no stove or fireplace—cooking was probably relegated to a shed behind the house—but there was a small brazier in the corner, its embers glowing merrily.

Many of the charms and talismans hanging in the windows harkened to some of the same ones Kate had seen while visiting an herb woman on the island of pirate wives, the circle drawn on the floor with charcoal, and another burned into the tabletop, nearly identical to ones she had seen in Celia's jungle shack.

With determined motions, Ma Mère set out a pan on the table between them, and filled it with water from a chipped ewer, a faint smell of the sea rising from it. Then she extended her hand toward Kate. "Spit. Go on, child, spit!" she insisted at Kate's hesitation.

Uncertain, Kate bent her head over the upturned palm and did so; barely straightening before Ma Mère slapped a finger into the globule then carefully inspected the pattern of the droplets in the water.

"Hmph." It was a non-committal utterance. Reaching into a battered leather pouch, Ma Mère sprinkled a bit of the powder into her palm, the corner of her mouth curling interestedly as the spittle rose in pink foam.

Ma Mère scooped up a wooden cup that sat on the table's geometric. With multi-colored streamers and feathers tied to its handle, the cup's surface was deeply relief carved with figures, echoing some of the same symbols as on the table. Closing her eyes, she murmured while she shook it several times, the contents rattling, and then dumped it out on the table.

Bent over to peer intently at the bits of stone, shell, bone and other things that defied description, Ma Mère shook her head, muttering darkly, "Very strange. This is most confusing. This here," she explained pointing at a bone angled across a spiral etched on the table, sounding as if she were thinking aloud, "is for death. And yet this," her finger moving to a shell tipped over on top of some writing, "means life."

Straightening, she pensively tapped a finger on the table. "This will never do," she finally announced, with a sharp wave. "I need something of his."

Kate's heart sank; being a man of few possessions, she had no mementos from Jack. Then she lightened, remembering the only gift he had ever given her. "I have this," she said, touching her rope necklace.

Ma Mère scrutinized it with reservation, touching it with a finger stained by years of working with plants. "Was this his?"

"No, but he made it for me," Kate offered hopefully.

That brought a smile. "Better yet, a gesture from de heart, by his hand."

As Kate suspected, the necklace's rope had bound down on itself to the point of being impossible to untie, forcing her to reluctantly concede to it being cut from her neck.

Ma Mère examined the knot work, nodding with approval. "He has his own magic, does he not? Look at these," she went on indicating a series of intricate knots. "They are meant to bind one soul to another."

Kate looked at the necklace, a little taken back; she had never had the occasion to be able to actually examine it. She had barely been on the _Black Pearl_ two weeks, when Jack had made it for her_._ They had been on the deck one night, talking about anything and everything, his fingers moving in mindless abandon, with no apparent purpose, until a necklace magically appeared, dangling between his hands. She recalled well the tenderness in his touch as he fastened it about her neck, but he made no mention, not even a vague allusion of… anything!

Two weeks after she had arrived! _Two weeks! Damn him!_ But then, it was just Jack, being Jack.

Ma Mère spread the necklace on the table, the center knot and the separate ends meticulously arranged on the table's diagram. Kate found herself holding her breath as the bones and charms were gathered back into the cup. The gold eyes slowly closed, the lips moved in a silent chant, and then the contents were scattered on the table again.

In the distant reaches of her mind, the best Kate had been hoping for was some kind of an epiphany, a dramatic moment of exclamation as Ma Mère had some great insight as to Jack's whereabouts. Instead, her soaring hopes sunk as the conjure woman's face fell.

"Very strange; very, very strange. In all my days, I've not seen dis." The hawk-eyes pivoted around on Kate. "Tell me about the dream."

Kate blinked, startled by the sharp demand. "I saw him nearly every night, until that one night, when…" Her throat caught as the images came tumbling back. "I saw him killed, except it was like I was being killed with him."

"And after?"

"Nothing." The hopelessness was almost overwhelming, the loneliness and desertion coming in a cold wave.

Ma Mère cocked a pensive brow. "Ever?"

"No, until I saw him again, more recently, but it was reversed, like I had been following him."

Seeing Jack again had been elating, until she had seen the haunted look in his eyes. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she was helpless.

"What did you see?"

Kate closed her eyes, carefully reconstructing the scene as she had so many times before. "It was on a beach, a black one."

"Black?" The gold eyes sharpened. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." It had been puzzling, but absolutely clear in Kate's mind. "I was surprised, because I've never seen one before. I thought maybe it was just one of those odd parts of a dream."

Ma Mère smiled patiently at Kate's naiveté. "There are no oddities in dreams. Everything means something. What else?"

"His ship—the _Pearl_—was in the distance."

"Sailing, or anchored?"

"Anchored."

Ma Mère nodded, thoughtfully frowning. "Anything else?"

"Men… his crew." Kate's brows narrowed as she strained to recall, afraid of what might have been a part of the dream, and what her imagination—or wishful thinking—might have fabricated. "Except they were all different, from any that I knew."

"How different?"

Kate pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose as she strained to recall. "Oriental, I think… sort of. What does it mean?"

"Jack has called you," Ma Mère blurted then slowed when she saw Kate's confusion. "He's looking for his anchorage, a place to hold on. His ship is his heart, his vessel, his way back. He feels himself slipping, lost among strangers, fighting to rise from a darkness. The black sand is an abyss he is attempting to escape, running from a great fear. Those men are the evils which chase him, his torments."

Kate sagged, her worst fears confirmed.

"His heart is torn." Ma Mère placed her hand over Kate's on the table, and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "We must assure another cannot take it."

"Another woman?" Kate's heart lurched at that consideration. In all her turmoil, she hadn't thought of Jack finding someone else. But then, why wouldn't he? In the same instant, she knew that if that were the case, she would be able to bear it, as long as Jack was alive. After all, she had never imagined that he would be hers forever, anyway.

Ma Mère attempted a smile at Kate's assumption, but was too distracted by her own thoughts. "No, something stronger. It's unclear."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"Ordinarily, this would be near impossible. He has been dead too long; there would be no bringing him back. But there are strong, strong powers. Strong powers," she repeated, lapsing into a momentary muttering. "The likes of which I have never seen. _But_," she added, pointing at Kate. "If your dream is as you say, then he has already returned, at least partially, and we can help him the rest of the way.

Confused by what was meant by "partially", and Kate did understand, confirming what she had been sensing for weeks.

"First, we must cleanse your spirit," Ma Mere said, as she rose, already setting to work. "And then make it strong, so that he can find you, and hold on. Next, we make a path, so that he can find his way.

A small cone no larger than the joint of her finger, was plucked from a sealed jar, and set in the shallow pan, the film of Kate's spittle still swirling on its surface.

"First, and most important, you must clear you mind of this death, to allow him to come back. This be water and fire," Ma Mère said as she lit the incense, a slow coil of smoke curling up, filling the room with the scent of sandalwood, myrrh among others, "opposite powers of nature, just like him. It will call his spirit. Put your hand in the smoke, and allow it to cleanse you."

As Kate did so, Ma Mère pawed through a crude, earthenware dish filled with what appeared to be stones, each with a rough hole through the center, finally locating four to her satisfaction, each one markedly different from the other in color and texture. Stringing them onto the necklace, she dipped the entire thing into a small crock, and then waved it through the smoke from the incense cone.

"This will help protect you and clean your spirit," she said bearing smile, and moving around behind Kate. "Allow me to tie it; you'll be needing a special knot."

Finished, Ma Mère faced Kate to inspect her handiwork. The large decorative knot was wet and cool, and a bit oily on her throat from whatever in which it had been immersed, her nose twitching at the questionable smell that rose from it.

"The hole stones will keep your spirit strong and pure, and bring him at de same time."

"Then, he is alive," Kate sighed in relief, Ma Mère's confident nod the best assurance of all.

"This is to help you sleep, and to make your dreams open to him," Ma Mère went on, holding up an amber colored ampoule, a red string and a feather tied at the top. "Take a drop or two each night."

The conjure woman produced a roughly sewn, small pouch of red flannel, and waved it through the smoke, as she did with each of the next items she gathered before dropping them in the bag.

"This be your gris-gris; keep it with you at all times. In here will be all your powers."

A candle was selected from a rush basket, and then generously rubbed with oil, the air growing heavy with orange blossom, cinnamon and bayberry. "Burn this while you bathe, even if it just be a wet cloth at de basin. It will bring all the powers of nature together; the powers that surround him are very strong, and must be overcome."

Ma Mère sorted through a battered pottery plate piled, the afternoon light catching in the facets of the crystals, arcing rainbows on the table and far wall.

"Which one of these speaks to you?" Ma Mère spread several on the table before Kate. She looked on expectantly, her impatience growing at having to explain. "Close your eyes, and reach out with your mind; pick de one that calls to you the loudest."

Anxious to do whatever was necessary, Kate closed her eyes. A giddiness beginning to fill her head, it was a bit of a relief from the sting of the smoke, and she forced her mind to focus. As the ambient sounds of the yard and forest gradually faded, a low hum took their place, emanating from in front of her. Tentatively extending her hand, the vibration's pitch rose and fell as she moved it from side to side.

"This one," Kate said, with a mixed sense of victory and fear.

"Pick it up, and tell me how it feels."

With her eyes still closed, Kate fumbled a bit, but finally grasped the crystal, its sharp edges comfortable in her palm. "Warm. Very warm," she said, surprised. "It tingles, as if my hand has gone to sleep in just that one spot."

"Then it is a good match," Ma Mère announced and handily dropped the crystal into the cloth bag, continuing on her quest from container to jar, to box, to bag, dropping pinches and sprigs into the flannel pouch.

"You know Jack, don't you?" Kate asked, as she watched Ma Mère move about the room, collecting.

Ma Mère bent to her work a little more diligently, but couldn't hide the creeping smile. "Of course," she reluctantly admitted at length. "Who doesn't in des waters? Jack has a way of instilling himself on everyone he touches. The spirits are strong in him, remarkably so."

"It probably came from his mother. He claimed she spoke to 'auld ones', I think is what he called them."

Ma Mère paused in her work, with a distant look and a faint smile as she nodded. "Yes, that would explain much."

As difficult it might have been to accept, all evidence pointed to Ma Mère's familiarity with Jack went beyond a passing acquaintance, but Kate was loath to inquire any further. It was a part of the hazard of coming halfway into someone's life, leaving her to feel as if she had missed so much, most particularly with someone as evocative and memorable as Jack.

When she had met Brian, he had been barely twenty years old, but living in the same place as he had been born and raised had provided her with a strong sense of who he was. No one would ever know Jack that entirely; no one had ever been allowed into his life for more than random segments, never allowing anyone enough to cement together enough.

"Burn the sandalwood every seven nights." Ma Mère held up some larger sprigs broken from some of the bundles hanging overhead. "It will guide him from the dead, and back among the living. His spirit seeks safety, which you must supply. Take this." Between two fingers she displayed what appeared to be the tip of an animal's horn, with a bit of cork for a stopper. "Sprinkle two drops at your threshold every night. On the full and new moon, put four drops—one for each of the powers—in the dirt of a crossroad."

Kate nodded intently, carefully taking note of every detail.

Dropping the candle into the bag, Ma Mère peered inside, taking inventory, and then nodded, satisfied. "Now spit," she said, holding the top open before Kate. "Spit!"

Hesitant, Kate did so, the bag's strings snapping it shut the moment the globule dropped.

"Take this iron." Ma Mère handed Kate a piece of dark gray metal, cool and heavy in her hand. "Put it under your bed, to ward off the evil that surrounds him, and keep your own spirit strong."

"He's alive then?" In spite of all the preparations she had seen the obeah woman perform, Kate needed to hear the confirmation once again, just to be sure, to prevent any second-guessing later.

Ma Mère nodded confidently. "Most certainly, but he teeters on the edge; he sees but two choices, and fears them both. I see him, and many ships; he is still amid great strife and peril. He lives with a torn heart, but he lives."

Kate's head swum, and nearly fell off the stool, with the wave of relief that washed over her. With that knowledge, she could survive anything.

As an afterthought, Ma Mère plucked a leaf from a branch above her head, and took it to the small brazier that burned in the corner. "A bay leaf in de fire will tell: if it crackles and burns, our labors will be rewarded. If not…" She lifted one shoulder, allowing the rest to answer for itself.

Kate held her breath, and as Ma Mère dropped the leaf into the embers. There was an agonizing interval of nothing, and then the greenish-brown edges sparked, the leaf instantly consumed in a rattling pop.

Ma Mère gave Kate's arm an encouraging pat as she steered her toward the door. "The powers are willing. It may take time, but keep your heart pure, and he will find his way. You hold him heart, just as he holds yours."


	36. Chapter 36: Fire!

**Chapter Thirty-six: Fire!**

**Jack** staggered into his cabin, leaving the victorious jubilation behind, wobbling rubber-legged across the cabin, to finally drop into the chair in front of the window, the one he had set there for Kate.

It was over! For all intents and purposes, it was done. It had all gone right—and yet, nothing was as it should be.

Beckett was dead, Jones, too. The _Black Pearl_ had prevailed, the _Endeavour_ sent to the depths. The Company had retreated, gone but not forgotten, to regroup and rise again, no doubt, the loss of a flagship, and a director that everyone loved to hate, being only the briefest of setbacks.

Never in his days had Jack felt a joy equal to the moment he said, "Fire!", a decade of pent up thirst for revenge absolved. Calypso had been freed, and the pirates had prevailed, to raid and plunder another day.

But the successes ended there.

Leaning on his knees, Jack braced his head in his hands and rubbed his face, in the vague hopes of waking to discover that it had all been a dream. No such luck; it all played in his head in crystal clarity

The _Flying Dutchman_ had a new captain, but contrary to all his plans, it wasn't him. He was just as mortal now as he had been that morning, death leering over his shoulder with a smile just as bright. It all fall apart before his very eyes.

Battling Jones, while balancing on the _Dutchman's _yards, had been tough enough. He had barely recovered from the jolt of landing on the deck, when Jones' blow had knocked him flat, hitting the deck of the _Dutchman_ in a bone-jarring collision. That was the beginning of the hell. His breath coming in ragged gasps, his ears rang, until the battle was but distant pops and thuds, the patter of rain in his face finally rousing him. _The chest!_ It was his one single thought as he pushed up from the rain-slicked wood, forcing his wooden legs to move. The key had been maddeningly slippery in his numb fingers, and he fumbled with the lock, swearing.

It had been the cold wetness of the heart in his palm that had jerked him back, reality coming into sharp contrast, the pounding of his own heart merging with the steady pulsation in his hand. A thrill rushed through him, at the realization of the enormity of the power that he held, and the surge of knowing that the culmination of an arduous effort was nigh: sail the seas forever, with his two ladies, one dark, and the other so very fair.

His sword was a pitiful remnant by then, but a blade was a blade.

There had been a moment of hesitation as Jack had looked at Jones, and wondered if he was looking at his own future: ravaged and grotesque, so ruthless and cold as to no longer seem human.

But no, Jones was different. _He_ was different, and his lady was so very, very different. If history were to repeat itself, she would be there for him. He had to believe that, if he were going to be able to do what must be done.

When Jones stood over him, sword raised, Jack had braced for the blow, trying to measure the time it would take to stab the beating thing in his hand, against how long it would take for Jones to either cut off his head, or cleave him in half.

The rest came in slow motion, each action a caricature of itself: the shocked look on Will's face at being run through, the viscous twist Jones gave his blade, Elizabeth's tortured shriek, and Jones' malicious laugh.

_Bloody hell!_

After that, a roar had filled Jack's ears, obliterating all else. He gulped down the rising bile that threatened to choke him; in one of the few times in his life, he nearly panicked. Everything for which he had strove so hard had been right there; he had been so close. But what had to be done, had to be done. He silenced the omnipresent, screaming voices in head, Jack allowed the good man to be heard.

_Good-bye, Kittie. _How could he ever return to her as nothing more than a mere mortal? The Letters of Marque were gone; he had nothing to give her. It was the end of everything he had hoped for, everything he had planned.

Hell was back on his horizon.

Back in his cabin, Jack balled a fist and pounded his leg, hoping the pain might wake him from this nightmare. "Bugger! Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!" for the moment, not caring who heard him.

_Pretend it's all a bad dream. _

He tried. It didn't work.

Jack ran a weary hand down his mustache. Beckett was gone, but he was only dead. It was a hollow victory, and vastly insufficient. Jack needed more, but from all appearances, there was none to be had.

He strained to think. Somewhere amid the chaos, there had to be a way to salvage it all, but suddenly he was too weary; sleep still evaded him—or he evaded it, as the case might be. He cast a wishful look over his shoulder toward the sleeping quarters. _God, if only she was there._ _With those blue-green eyes that could see through anyone, she would be able to see a way. _He could talk to her, tell her his hopes and dreams, fears and anguish, and she could help him find a way. She could ease the throb in his head with those enchanted fingers, help him sleep, just for once, just for a little while, and then…

Groaning, Jack slumped back in the chair, and closed his eyes. The celebration on deck had died off, the crew quietly setting about their duties. Gibbs would be looking for direction. And Barbossa… would have to be dealt with… later. But for now, for just a few moments, he needed some peace.

Jack spread his fingers over the arm rest's soft velvet, just has he had seen Kate do so many times. She was there now, behind him, her sweet smell engulfing him as she bent to touch her lips to the top of his head. Her hands were gentle on his neck, and she made that little contented humming sound that she always made after he had bedded her. It took little persuasion for him to allow her to take him away, to where there was only the two of them… and blessed peace…

A noise jerked Jack back to the cabin and reality. At first, he thought it to be just another of the voices that were his constant companions, but it was quickly apparent that the sound was from outside his head, from the sleeping quarters. He reluctantly rose, and an innate wisdom telling him it might be wise to creep as he went closer.

It was crying he had heard, muffled and most female. His heart leapt at the fleeting hope that it might be Kate, instantly knowing that to be impossible. He would know the sound of her weeping anywhere, and it was most definitely not her. There was only one other possibility, but that one seemed grossly improbable.

Pushing the curtain aside, Jack found Elizabeth on the bunk, weeping into Barbossa's shoulder as he rocked her, in as tender of a scene as anyone could have ever expected to catch Hector. Somehow, the sight was a perfect cap to a chaotic day.

Barbossa shot Jack a warning look over his shoulder as Jack came in. Noticing Jack's presence, Elizabeth abruptly pushed away from Hector's shoulder, turning her head, and roughly swiped her face.

"What the…?" Oddly, Jack was the one to be at a loss for words.

"She's married." Barbossa offered the two words as if they would explain everything.

They didn't.

"That was fast." Jack blinked in puzzled disbelief. "Married who?" His brain felt as it if had gone to mush. For that matter, his head throbbed horribly, no doubt from hitting the Dutchman's deck. He looked at Barbossa, every answer that came to mind being even more unlikely than the one before. "You? No wonder she's crying."

Hector rolled his eyes as Elizabeth broke into a renewed wave of sobbing. "Yer a cold man, Jack Sparrow. Can't ye see the lady's in mournin'?"

Bracing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, Jack closed his eyes and strained to think. "Will? She married Will?" He shook his head. A certain part of that made sense, although there was a very large portion that didn't.

"Of course!" choked Elizabeth.

"But how… who…?" Jack's bewilderment was growing by the second. "I just left, and everything was… different."

"I married 'em," Barbossa beamed, and then winked smugly. "Cap'n of the ship, ya know."

Jack's fists balled at his sides. "No, I don't know, because you're not… or weren't… or weren't ever…" he shot back bluntly, weary of the necessity of constantly reiterating that point.

"You left…"

"No, you…"

"Stop it!" Elizabeth shrieked, her face reddening with the effort, the two men shying away.

Recomposing herself, Elizabeth dabbed her face, and then patted Barbossa's arm. "Thank you, Captain. _Your_ compassion is very much appreciated," she added, shooting Jack an accusing look.

Hector graciously took the hint, and rose, sniffing haughtily as he brushed past Jack.

"Lizzie, I had no idea," Jack said, when he was sure Barbossa was well out of earshot. The impact of the grisly scene on the _Flying Dutchman's _deck dragged on him doubly hard. None of it had gone the way he had intended; a sobbing woman certainly hadn't been on his list of possibilities either.

"I understand, Jack." Elizabeth's smile wobbled, her customary resilience severely tattered. "You did the best you could, as much as could be expected from anyone."

She lifted her chin as she rose and squared her shoulders. "It was the best way—the only way. Otherwise, Will would have been dead. As it is, in ten years…" She swayed at that. Bracing a hand on the foot of the bed, she leaned toward Jack, and he reflexively backed away. "I'll have him back," she finished, her voice a slight bit stronger.

Seeing the reddened nose and tear-streaked eyes, Jack was hit with an odd and markedly unfamiliar sensation. It was a feeling that rarely visited itself upon him, but there it was, as truculent as a Portuguese fishwife, no easier to ignore than Barbossa's mange-ridden monkey: regret.

_Bloody hell! Where did that come from?_

By Jack's judgment, much of the travails that had befallen Elizabeth of late had either been the hand of Fate, or her own doing. However, he couldn't shake the feeling that most of these tears streaming had been brought by his hand, and he couldn't bear it.

Will's plight was quite another matter. It was difficult to categorize Bootstrap's boy in his catalog of life. Fighting together shoulder-to-shoulder had made them more than acquaintances, but the treachery and betrayal had rendered it impossible to be friends, both Turner and his bride. But it was virtually impossible to ignore the irony of his similarity to the boy. It required a self-review, to which Jack was no ordinarily inclined, yet still: abandoned by a father of the sea, growing up determined to be on the right side of right, only to have circumstances and the hand of others intervene and be hurled into an unintended life, irrevocably doomed, and his love lost, for what could well seem like forever.

No, that wouldn't be his own story; Kate would be there. She had to be!

_And if not?_

He had spent ten years searching the world for the iBlack Pearl/i. Together, the two of them could spend double that, if necessary, searching for Kate.

If for no other reason than that, Jack felt an obligation to do what might be done, even if it meant helping the one he had vowed never to trust again. He would help her this once, and then she was on her own. He had matters of his own to attend, and none included anyone at Shipwreck Cove.

He had to concede that his compassion to Elizabeth's plight came by virtue of the precarious edge of his own destruction, upon which he teetered. If Kate were to be torn from his life, a sword through the chest would be a mercy. He couldn't imagine the staggering pain of seeing the _Flying Dutchman_ spiraling to the depths, knowing the one you wanted most went with it.

No one deserved that!

"I'm not entirely up to complete familiarity with all this business," Jack stammered, groping wildly for something that might put a positive on such a dismal situation.

One thought finally congealed, and by his estimation, was the best solution of all. Short-lived and tragic, yes, but it was at least something better than just sailing away, never to meet for another ten years. If it was he in such a position, it would certainly be an appealing option. Of course, there was the small, but not insignificant, matter of how to find the good Captain Turner, but surely he hadn't abandoned his bride so quickly! A ship of the line had just sunk; there was more than enough souls for the _Dutchman_ to gather, and keep them nearby for a bit.

Jack briefly wondered about the finer details of the _Flying Dutchman's_ charge. Must the captain be about, in order for the ship to fulfill its charge? Couldn't the crew perform at least a few tasks on their own recognizance?

He shook his head, batting away the thought; too much to think about, and so little time.

"It strikes me that said 'one day' would be a discriminatory matter," said Jack, with a suggestive waggle of his brows. "Now… or later, wouldn't seem to make that much difference to the powers that be." _Whoever that might be. One for the ages there._

"You mean… now?" Elizabeth blinked uncertain hopefulness glimmering in the watery corners of her eyes.

"Can't see why not!" A bit of magnanimity lightened him. "There's a deserted island just off Shipwreck. It has some lovely glades barely off shore; an Eden to be sure."

Her eyes widened in joy, and then narrowed suspiciously.

"On me word of honor, luv," Jack assured, holding up one hand in a pledge. "No tricks. Just allow me this one gesture. I'll speak with Gibbs."

He scurried out of the room, unsure if he was spurred by his enthusiasm for the grand gesture, or just his anxiousness to put as much distance as possible between himself and Elizabeth. He did pause at the door for a last look at the bunk, the battered yellow quilt now crumpled, shoved to one side, and gulped.

It would seem that more than a life had been lost.

** "Good-bye, poppet."**

**Jack** leaned an elbow on the rail, and tried to appear as disinterested as possible as the new Mrs. Turner worked her way down the line of crew that had gathered, offering their farewells. The fact of the matter was that he was entirely interested, in getting her off his ship.

Demure and composed, the façade lowered, posing as who she was, rather than whom she wanted to be, Elizabeth was a beauty, in spite of those ridiculous clothes. With that ample mouth, that could promise so much, it was disquieting how easily she could make a man forget any number of reservations and encumbrances. If she ever learned how to use those God-given gifts, she would be a formidable force, and could leave a man smiling after she was done with him.

As it was, a woman trying to live as a man, in a man's world, she had lost the battle before it had even begun. _Let someone else try to tell her that; another battle lost before it's begun._ She might be built as straight as a man, but determination and will power, augmented by a sword, fell far short of making up the difference. Turner was going to have his hands full. It was a wonder how he was ever going to manage her. By all appearances, he had an eternity to learn.

"It would have never worked out between us, Jack."

_Ah, so it's that one she was going to throw back._ He had uttered it as a ruse, for the benefit of those standing about, and she had responded with a look that suggested he might have been the village idiot asking to kiss the princess.

"You just keep telling yourself that, darling." _I've used you; you've used me. We're square._

She moved to kiss him, and he reflexively ducked away, but managed to conceal the move with a flutter of fingers. "Once is quite enough." _No__ olive branches here._

He couldn't describe his relief at seeing Elizabeth disappear over the gunwale and down the ladder. _Off me ship, finally! Only one more pestilence to go._

He had been through the Elizabeth Swann, King-of-the-Brethren-Court Turner School of Manipulations and Guiles. Education complete!

As the dingy bearing Elizabeth pushed off from the _Pearl's_ side, Jack looked up at the shattered yards, the snarled rigging reminding him of Kate's maddening tangle. It would seem the ladies in his life were alike in more ways than one.

"Damages, Mr. Gibbs," he asked, hearing the unmistakable cadence of his First Mate's step approach. "How bad is she?"

As if Jack needed to ask. As if it had been his own body, he had felt every blow the_ Pearl _had taken; every rip, crack and buckle. Still, an objective assessment was in order, and the pain he saw on Gibbs' face was answer enough. Besides himself, no one knew the _Pearl_ better.

Gibbs took a deep breath. "Yards are shattered, knees broken, planking popped, 'tween decks beams and deck stations snapped, chocks and the mast carlings, along with the mast beams, are separated from the deck, and most of the stays and shrouds are gone. We lost eight guns, five above and three below. She's takin' water fast, 'n one bilge pump's already give way."

Gibbs looked around, shaking his head and groping for words. "The rest ye can see," he finally said, surrendering under the enormity of it all. "As you say, Cap'n, there's naught but pride holdin' her afloat. She needs lovin' care, and a lot of it… fast."

Jack nodded. He wasn't hearing anything that was unexpected. He could hear the _Pearl_ begging for help, feel her faltering as valiantly attempted to do she was asked. He was torn between seeing to the needs of his ship, and getting back to Kate. A time bomb still ticked within him, a small matter of some unfinished business.

"The pirate lords will all be a-meetin' up, to choose their new pieces of eight, n' all."

The suggestion in Gibbs' voice completed his thought, a suggestion which Jack wanted no part. The _Pearl_ would be given her rewards; she was in need of a full refit, but not at Shipwreck Cove. The thought of a minimum of a month or two there was enough to curdle his gizzard.

"I wish them well," Jack said, veering off toward his cabin, Gibbs stride for stride next to him. "I've me own matters to attend."

"You're gonna forego bein' a pirate lord?"

"It was thrust upon me to begin with; ruling bodies holds no fascination for me." _What the bloody hell difference would there be if there were only eight pirate lords instead of nine? Surely the tides would still move, and the moon would still rise. _

"Aye, but the _Pearl's_ pretty broken up," Gibbs said. "We could use at least a month, mebbe more for repairs."

Jack wheeled around, rolling his eyes as he waved toward the green hulking outline of Shipwreck. "Is there a fat widow you missed back there somewhere?"

"Should be quite the celebration, Cap'n. You 'n Master Turner are heroes." Gibbs hesitated, glancing to see who might be within earshot before he went on. "Most of Huan's men are a-wantin' to go back to their own on the _Empress._ We're gonna need crew, if we're to make it anywheres."

Reaching the gaping hole that was once his cabin's doorway, Jack pulled up short at the sight of Barbossa inside, pouring over his wretched chart. As much as Jack hated to admit it, the odds were all stacked against him.

"Aye, you're right," Jack sighed, wincing at the admission. "Repairs it is. I've one more matter of business to attend, anyway."

One very large dangling bit of unfinished business that, by the best of his estimation, couldn't be completed sitting at Shipwreck. But Shipwreck would at least provide him time, and if the Fates were inclined to be helpful, perhaps they might provide a way to get Barbossa off his ship. After all, he thought, turning to look speculatively at the Turner's honeymoon island, it would appear the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ would be busy for a while.

Gibbs followed Jack's line of sight, and scowled. "We should be a-waitin' for her; t'wouldn't be right to just leave Miss... err, Mrs. Turner stranded."

"A minute ago, you couldn't' wait to get back to Shipwreck," Jack shot back. "What's the bloody problem? She's king now; let Her Royalness get herself back."

Jack cast an eye skyward; evening wasn't that far off. "We'll make was for the east side; you know where the anchorage is. We'll lay off here for the night. I don't want to try to make Devil's Throat in the dark."

Setting Gibbs on his way, Jack stood at the rail. Shipwreck sat abeam of the _Black Pearl_, and he stifled a shudder. Everything he wanted to avoid was in there, and yet everything he needed, his ship needed, was in there.

Something inside him had changed; maybe it was reality beginning to settle in. What had been an obsession suddenly seemed just that, an obsession that, in the glare of day, was no longer so obsessing.

Ten years! How could he have ever seen that as a possibility, and a feasible one, at that? As it was, time lethargically ticked past, each minute hanging a little heavier than the one before, each threatening to drag him down to the same depths as the _Dutchman,_ until he could be with Kate.

Seeing Will and Elizabeth's plight had made the fallacy of his dream eloquently clear: one immortal and one not; one free to sail the seas with impunity, the other frail—contrary to her opinion—and vulnerable. God knew the sea was no safe place, but neither was land.

Will had the privilege of sailing the _Dutchman_ through anything, anywhere, and yet, what was he to do if Elizabeth's ship was to go down? Be there to retrieve her as she drowned? And then what? Deliver her to the beyond? Or, should the best case happen, and he was able to keep her safe from such tragedies, he could stand by, and watch as the ravages of time and age take its toll, until she finally died?

Eternity certainly had its merits, but then, to be alone… What was the advantage there in that? To live long enough to watch Kate grow old and die? That just sounded like another version of the Locker. If he could have guaranteed it for the both of them, together, well… that might have been an intriguing thought.

It just sounded like another Hell.

Will's anguish at leaving Elizabeth alone was eloquently sharp in Jack's gut. Pirate King. She was at least protected, and among friends, treacherous though they might be.

_She has more of either than Kate._

Jack braced a hand on the rail at the impact of that. The world was a treacherous and capricious place, and he had left Kate with nothing more than a pocket knife and her wiles, against every immoral laggard, lout, fiend, lecher and fortune finder, let alone every malady and misfortune.

Jack braced a hand on the rail as the impact hit him, of what he had left Kate to face alone, an easy victim to every malady and immoral sod that walked.

_Bloody, stupid, bungling lummox! Get back to her—and now! And you'd better bloody well hope it's not too late!_

Deep in thought, Jack had taken little notice of the ship approaching Devil's Throat. On a clear day and friendly winds, the reef-studded passage into Shipwreck Cove was a treacherous entry. It didn't seem remarkable to see a ship going in; an entire flotilla had been returning all day. Then the late afternoon sun reflected off the bright blue hull.

"Bloody hell!" he murmured, a smile slowly growing. "Me answers are found."


	37. Chapter 37: In the Protection of Friends

6

**Chapter Thirty-eight: In the Protection of Friends**

**Thomas** drummed his fingers on the tavern's battered table, the bench creaking under his weight as he shifted. Reluctantly taking a sip from his tankard, he made another face, wondering how much more drunken he would have to become, before the swill would taste any better.

_Not enough rum in the Cove, for that._

For having been a pirate haven for the best part of two hundred years, the Cove's taverns sold some of the worst, most vile rum he had ever suffered. There had been a time, when he had frequented the establishments with enough regularity to make his face known to every keep and serving maid, providing him access to the better quality drink, but that had been years ago. Since then, he'd kept as much space between himself and this lair of treachery as the rules of nature would allow.

But the song had been sung, and so he came, too late to join the fight, but in time for the celebration. As he heard it, one more ship would have been inconsequential. However, he did wonder who he would need to know to get a decent drink.

The story going round was that Hector Barbossa—the old reprobate—had been captaining the _Black Pearl_, hence he had been the one to defeat the Company's Armada, sent them running, and the _Endeavour_ to the depths. Anyone who knew the _Pearl_ knew that if Jack Sparrow drew a breath, he was her captain, and if a fraction of what Thomas had heard was true, the _Pearl_ had sailed her heart out. Jack wasn't one to be inclined toward heroism; God knew the man could twist the truth to serve his own purposes. Being the Grand Savior of Shipwreck Cove would not be among those. Hector, on the other hand, would do nothing to dispel any versions of grandeur on his part.

A number of rumors had been going around, each one more unlikely than the one before. Some seemed highly improbable, but that could be a dangerous assumption when speaking of Jack.

Another whore strolled past his table, displaying her wares, rubbing where any man over the age of thirteen would appreciate, and be left wanting more. As with the others, he politely waved her away. This one—ever so close to being a bit too long in the tooth and worse for wear—wasn't as easily dismissed as the others.

"Been watchin' you," she snarled, affronted by his refusal. Jerking her shoulders, she stabbed her fingers into her hair and tugged her bodice lower over her bosoms. "Not a woman 'ere suits yer fancy." She paused, softening as another ploy came to mind. "Fer two shillings, I could find you a boy, nice and young, with a sweet face and blue eyes…"

Thomas' stony glare stopped her in mid-sentence. "I have a better idea," he began ominously. He fished in his pocket, and slid her several coins across the table. "How about you take this, and go make sure everyone knows that I'm a man who prefers my privacy, savvy?"

With the darting quickness of an adder, the whore took the money and disappeared into the smoke-choked room from which she had come.

The dim tavern was a crush of people in a state of sloshing revelry, the air suffocatingly thick. The thin whine of a squeezebox and hornpipe came from two men perched atop the counter, prompting an occasional outbreak of dancing—or just drunken cavorting, as some might see it—only to be smothered out in the cramped space. The rowdy jubilation was punctuated with the nasal cackle of female laughter as the story of the battle was told, and then told again, each edition becoming more improbable than the last.

The din rose, starting in the vicinity of the door, obscured by the press of bodies, and slowly progressed through toward Thomas. The crowd thinned, and there stood Jack Sparrow, wincing under the drink-enhanced backslapping, and rum-slurred toasts, the mere fact that he had been on the _Pearl _being sufficient provocation to elevate him to near-hero status. With his usual aplomb when it came to playing a crowd, Jack acted with gracious flamboyance, but quickly sobered, a look of definite relief crossing his face when he spotted Thomas.

"You look like hell, Jack, and I don't mind sayin' it!" Thomas declared good-naturedly.

"Been to Hell… and back," Jack grumbled.

"Would have thought being a hero and all would have suited you a little better," Thomas laughed, and motioned Jack to a bench. "Sit! Sit! Let me buy you a drink."

As Jack sat, Thomas waved an urgent hand, holding up two fingers to the sullen wench when she finally sauntered over. "Two, and something a little better than that last swill."

She shifted an uncertain look between the two men, finally landing on Jack. "Is he with you?"

"He is," Jack said evenly without looking up.

A hint of approval lit the sullen eyes. Nodding, she left, returning shortly to unceremoniously plunk their drinks on the table. Thomas waved Jack off and tossed out several coins. "'Tis an honor to pay for the honored."

Thomas took an experimental swallow, and was both relieved and rewarded. _Much better!_

Settling back against the wall, Thomas waited. Ordinarily, Jack would be the one to initiate the conversation. But this was not his customary friend sitting across from him. Jumping at any unexpected noise, something was different, so very, very different.

"I heard stories, Jack," Thomas finally said, breaking the protracted silence. "They said Jones finally caught up with you."

Silent, Jack nodded, grim-faced as Thomas had ever seen him.

"I saw the _Pearl_," Thomas pressed, in his one-sided conversation. "Looks like you're going to be here a while."

Jack took a drink, grimacing. "Three days."

Thomas set down his tankard, gaping. "How? It's only pride that's keeping her afloat now. Hell, Jack, I could see from the harbor there's at least three months of repairs, and that doesn't begin to account for what's below the waterline."

Jack looked away. He wasn't hearing anything he didn't already know; any captain worth his salt wouldn't need to be told the condition of his ship.

"Three days; the rest we'll get along the way."

Thomas gave a derisive snort. "She's barely sea-worthy enough to make it to Devil's Throat."

"Three days is all she'll get," Jack said dogmatically. "There's still a few miracle workers left in this hell hole that understand her. Her spirit's whole; she'll make it."

Thomas slowly scanned the surrounding faces, a motley collection of humanity to be sure. At its best, Shipwreck was Tortuga without the law. Always a haven for inequity, the celebration had given the town permission to become one massive debauchery, anyone failing to be in that state coming under the sharpest suspicion. "Hasn't improved much, has it?"

Casting a furtive look around, Jack shuddered. "Worse, if anything. This calling of the Court has brought them out of the woodwork." He peered at Thomas over the rim of his cup. "I thought you might have the wisdom to stay away from this mess."

"The call went out; every pirate is obligated to come." Thomas gave a non-committal shrug. "Just needed someone to explain that detail to Mother Nature; she fought me the whole way."

Unable to contain his curiosity, Thomas looked interestedly around. "Where is she?" He knew full well the face he sought was nowhere near. "Where's Kate?"

Jack jerked a defensive shoulder, and began industriously picking at a splinter on the table. "Not here."

The terse finality of Jack's response brought Thomas to rigid attention. "Don't tell me you scuttled her already?"

Jack shot him a dark look. "Hardly," he said then dropped his eyes, again.

"Then where is she?"

Jack snatched up his drink, virtually draining it in one gulp, and then slammed it with enough force to cause the droplets inside to fly up, and draw the attention of several nearby. "_Not. Here_." His arched brow and stony glare made it clear he didn't wish her name to be mentioned again. "Do you really think I would bring her to this seething quagmire?"

Thomas gaped, incredulous. It had been just over a year, since he had last seen Jack; it was infuriating to think that Jack wouldn't have told him of his plans to leave Kate. But then, it would be a rare occasion that one—even a friend—could comprehend Jack's motivations. "You left her alone? How the bloody hell could you be so cold, Jack?"

Jack's determined front crumbled under the glare Thomas shot back. "Bringing her would have been worse," Jack shot back defensively. "With Jones on me trail, I had no idea what to expect."

"How long has it been since you saw her last?" Thomas head was spinning, and it was not from the rum.

Jack squinted as he calculated then winced. "I lost track of time, there for a bit; a year, maybe more."

The pained regret in Jack's voice caught Thomas unawares, cutting off his retort. He took a drink to wash down the anger that bubbled so near the surface.

"And you think she's still waiting?" Jerking off his hat, Thomas ran an agitated hand through his hair. "Have a pretty vast opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"If you're trolling for where she is, better switch bait." A bit of Jack's familiar levity returned. "I'm not telling you where she is."

"Afraid I'll go find her?"

Something darkly haunting flickered across Jack's face, before he dropped his gaze to the table. "A day ago, I might have taken you up on that offer." He shifted uneasily, frowning. "Things were looking quite differently, then."

"And now?" Thomas tried to glean his hopefulness from his question, but knew he had failed miserably. All it would have taken was one small nod from Jack, and he'd be off to find Kate, tides and wind be damned.

"It's just a matter of how soon I can return," Jack said after considerable hesitation. "Just have a few small matters to attend."

Given the opportunity, Thomas would have wagered everything in his pockets that there was nothing "small" about anything to which Jack was referring.

There was a desperate tone in Jack's voice that was worrisome. A desperate Jack was a dangerous one, not only to himself, but to anyone around him. Too many times, Providence had smiled upon him in just the nick of time, proving to Jack that he could get away with anything. God knew, it didn't happen all the time, much to the detriment of anyone around him, but enough to instill a blind faith in Jack that he would always come out ahead.

"Look, Jack," Thomas began as evenly as he could manage. "The _Pearl's_ never gonna make it. Since you're so dead set on killing yourself and everyone else on board, let me go take K.... _her," _he quickly corrected at Jack's warning glare, "a message, to let her know that you're on your way. Then, when the _Pearl's_ fit...."

"You think I'm going to tell you where she is?"

The air between them bristled. Thomas finally broke out a laugh. It was senseless to argue; Jack held all the cards, and he knew it. A desperate Jack was one thing; a mulish Jack was quite another.

"Can't blame me for tryin', can you, Jack? I'll be honest; I'd snatch her up in a minute, if she'd have me," he added, cracking a wry smile. Deep inside, he knew the truth of the matter was that Kate had already made her choice, and any fool who knew her, knew who it was.

Their standoff was broken by a fight that erupted somewhere across the room, marked by the sound of fists smacking into flesh, bracketed by shattering furniture and encouraging shouts. Thomas watched from the corner of his eye as Jack quaffed down one drink, and impatiently ordered another.

He had said Jack looked like hell, and he did, more like he'd been through hell, or to Hell, if one was to believe the stories. He couldn't help but notice Jack's hand shake as he reached for his drink; the dark circles under his eyes went deeper than the usual smudges. He was haggard, his smile too forced. Jack was always one to be in constant motion, but he shifted constantly; a man who couldn't face his own thoughts, he plucked at anything, looking for a distraction.

Jack was on a slippery slope, teetering on the edge.

"So, you finally got Ol' Beckett." Thomas decided perhaps a change in subject would be the best order. "In a blaze o' glory, story's going around. How does it feel to be a hero?"

Jack gave an off-handed shrug, dismissing the praise. "Caught him in a cross fire, hit the magazine..." He allowed Thomas' own imagination to finish the scene. Any veteran of sea battles knew what that meant: horrific explosions of the most devastating kind, the flying debris often damaging the very ship that had inflicted the final _coup._

"So Beckett's with Jones; must feel good to be finally shut of him." For Jack, it would have been the culmination of nearly a lifetime of animosity. Thomas wished he could have had some kind of a hand in that destruction. He and Beckett went back even further than Jack, and he wasn't forgetting the wrongs the bastard had done to Kate.

"Not as much as I will be."

Thomas narrowed one eye, regarding Jack over the rim of his tankard. "You sound like you have something more in mind. The man's dead. What else is there?"

The candlelight sparked a burning glint in Jack's eyes, his knuckles whitening around the tankard's handle. "You'd be amazed."

Just when the battle was over, when he should be his calmest, Jack was wound tighter than a fiddle string, ready to snap; the man literally shook with it. He had seen Jack under the gun before, but never like this. Jack always rose to the occasion, full of braggadocio and oozing confidence; the man could slide away from misfortune like a greased mast.

"Blowing up doesn't seem like enough for him, too damned quick," Thomas conceded. "I always visualized something nice and slow for that bastard. I watched a bunch of natives in the Java kill a man; took 'em four days, peelin' away at him a piece at a time, never any bigger than the palm of your hand. That seemed too fast for Beckett."

Never forgive him for what he did to K… errr, _her_."

"Rest assured," Jack began, his bared teeth glinting in the candlelight, "when I'm done with him, death will be a precious, and distant memory."

Hatred. Revenge. Those weren't traits one would normally attribute to Jack, but they were there now, with a flint coldness that brooked no arguments. The choice was whether to help him, or get out of the way; there were no other options. One thing that Jack did posses, many times to his own detriment, was single-mindedness.

The fisticuffs had long since ended, but another, louder cheer broke from the raucous crowd, and Thomas looked up to see a figure working its way through the jostling rowdiness. At first he thought it to be a man dressed in dark clothing that suggest China, but instantly saw that it wasn't.

"Who's that?"

Jack turned, and quickly came back around, hunching his shoulders as if not to be seen. "Her Royalness," he muttered grimly, and took a drink. "That, my friend, is the King of the Brethren Court."

Thomas jerked with surprise, reassessing the woman with a fresh eye. He had heard that there was a new king. That feat, in itself, was remarkable. The fact that it was a woman only added to the mystique. The sheer fact that she had managed such a feat declared her a formidable force. "What do you know about her?"

"Too much." Jack smiled in anticipation to the reaction of his next revelation. "_She _is the daughter of the Governor of Port Royal."

Thomas nearly spewed his drink, roughly gulping it down. "_She _is Weatherby Swann's daughter?"

"Elizabeth Swann," Jack declared, his mouth curling. "Turner, now," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Turner?" Intent on watching the new king maneuver through the crowd, Thomas vaguely acknowledged Jack's pronouncement, but then froze, his jaw dropping at the full realization of what Jack had said. "You mean Bootstrap? Well, that old fox; robbed the cradle did he, eh?" he said, raising his cup in a salute.

"No!" Jack rolled his eyes. "William Turner, his son, the new captain of the _Flying Dutchman._"

Thomas uncertainly nodded, thinking it to be another one of Jack's untimely jokes. Jack's steady gaze said otherwise. "The hell you say!" Scratching his jaw, Thomas quickly calculated the years. "Come to think on it, I guess he the boy would be about that old now, wouldn't he?"

As Thomas took a drink, he chuckled at the image of the son of a known pirate—a cursed one at that, last he had heard—married to the precious daughter of the Governor of Port Royal. The intrigue abounded with that one, and Jack was right in the middle of it. "Well, well, this is a small world."

"Not smaller; just a lot fewer in it," Jack said, cryptically, one of those comments that Thomas usually found more expedient to ignore.

"You made _her_ King?" Thomas narrowed one eye in disbelief. The indulgences of the Governor on his daughter were well-documented, and the image it painted hardly seemed a viable candidate for King of the Brethren Court. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Jack gave a half-shrug. "Several things, none of which bear repeating, nor explanation. Let's just say 'common goals' were had by all."

Thomas watched Swann's daughter over Jack's shoulder with renewed interest. Confident, and with the self-assurance of someone who had always enjoyed the comforts of privilege, she wore a sword like she knew what it was for. Even through the thick air of the tavern, he could see that she was a beauty-in-the-rough, tall, with a way of looking everyone in the eye with a go-to-blazes air.

At the same time, Thomas wondered what it was between her and Jack that had prompted him to vote her King. There was some kind of intrigue, to be sure. Perhaps Kate wasn't as far out of reach as he had assumed. With a little more sleight of hand, he might be able to wheedle Kate's whereabouts out of Jack, and then push Jack and Turner's new wife a bit closer.

The flaw in that plan was Jack's reaction to her appearance; from all appearances, the doors were shut and sealed. It did lead one to wonder what could have possibly brought that on. But then, this was a new Jack he was dealing with, one with a center, and conviction as to where he belonged, aside from his ship. Never had Thomas seen Jack so protective of a woman, defensive of even letting her name be heard. Neither had he known Jack to be "just friends" with any woman, not for long, at any rate, and it certainly didn't appear such had been the case between him and this gal. But then, Kate had been the catalyst of many changes, perhaps was just another.

Thomas sat a little straighter at seeing Elizabeth coming their way. Jack saw Thomas' reaction, and stiffened, audibly groaning.

"Jack, I'd like to speak with you," rang a clear, educated voice.

"Oh, Your Murderessness!" Being forewarned of her approach still didn't fully prepare Jack. Ducking at the sound of her voice, he quickly recouped his mocking composure. "Pull up a bench!"

Now that she was closer, Turner's appeal was much more apparent, a beauty for sure, but well-hidden. For someone as young, there was a hardness about her, a cutting edge in not only her demeanor, but every word, too. Given a little more softness, physically and verbally, she could be very alluring. King of the Brethren Court; someone had used someone else, in order for that to happen. How she had managed to manipulate Jack, or Jack manipulate her, must have made for some very entertaining confrontations.

The girl's attention didn't waver from Jack. "I'd like it to be alone," she said, with the certainty of someone accustomed to having her way.

"Manners, please!" Jack jeered, with a grandiose sweep of an arm. "Just because we're the lowly of the earth, doesn't mean that we have to act like it. Your Lordship, may I present my good friend, Thomas. What's fit for me ears, is fit for his."

She gave Thomas only the most cursory notice. "Thomas?" Her voice held the question, seeking to learn if it was his first name or last.

"Thomas will do, Your Lordship." Following Jack's cue, Thomas etched a bow from where he sat.

"Charmed to meet you, I'm sure," she said with an icy cut, and swiveled her attention back to Jack. Her disapproval was apparent, but it was unclear if it was Thomas per se, or only the fact of another person's presence. Jack seemed relieved at Thomas being there, virtually ducking into his shadow for protection.

"With all due respect to your friend, Jack, I'd _prefer_ to speak to you alone."

The air between them sparking like St. Elmo's fire, Jack ducked a contemptuous bow from his seat. "At your leisure, My Liege."

She made no attempt to hide her displeasure at Jack's refusal; she was almost seemed to be expecting it. It appeared that the sparring between these two was nothing new, which meant this was more than just a passing acquaintance.

"I'll wait outside," she announced, and wheeled away.

"By all means," Jack said, with a teeth-bared grin. "By all means," he grumbled under his breath, turning to back Thomas, "wait until your hair goes gray."

"A bit imperious, isn't she?" Thomas murmured under the protection of the crowd's noise.

"She's new to the job. She'll learn."

"Well, Court has to at least convene one more time, just to establish their pieces of eight, at least that's how I understand it. You managed to vote her in; maybe you can vote her out." He snorted, giving Jack a skeptical appraisal. "Pirate lord! Who would've thought?"

"You should know," Jack shot back, chiding. "It was your doing."

"Aye well, better you than me." Thomas ducked his head, dodging the compliment. "It seemed like I needed to be doin' something for you, all things considered."

"Maybe I should give it back." The tease in Jack's voice was unmistakable.

Thomas shot him a glare over his mug. "Don't you dare."

They laughed together, but Thomas didn't press any further. Not wishing to violate the agreement that they had made so many years before, he looked around for a change of subject, his eyes landing on the new Pirate King, barely visible over Jack's shoulder.

"She looks like she's settling herself in," Thomas mused, resting his chin in his hand. "Looks like she thinks this King-thing is forever. Didn't anyone tell her it's only for the duration of the Court?"

"I'll allow you to explain that to her and Teague." Jack hoisted his tankard in salute. "I'll sell the body parts when they're done with you."

"Teague?" Thomas had almost forgotten about the venerable, not-so-invisible ruler of Shipwreck Cove. Nor had he considered the possibility of an alliance between him and the new king. Since there hadn't been a King for so many decades, it was difficult to fully appreciate the power dynamics at play, but it was very easy to believe that they hadn't been overlooked by Teague.

Jack looked off into space, his countenance darkening. "If I know him, he'll see this as a chance to dig those gnarly claws of his a little deeper."

"He's the Code Keeper already," Thomas pointed out. Granted, it had been a while since he had been in Shipwreck, but from all appearances, the politics hadn't changed: The Keeper of the Code still ran it with an iron-fist, absolutism at its finest.

Jack nodded as he took a drink. "Power corrupts, and he's been corrupted his whole life."

"Over a bunch of pirates?"

"And he's just been handed a new protégé'," Jack said with a wry smile, "fresh and lovely, and ready for the picking. I can hear the wheels turning from here, the seeds of his very own dynasty."

"He's always been a schemer; probably what kept him alive this long."

Jack gave a derisive snort. "No bullet hates itself enough to enter that body. Between the two of them, they'll drag this out as long as they can… years, with any luck."

Slowly, some of the tension had dissolved from Jack. It was probably a matter of the rum, as Jack nearly drained his second tankard; a third probably on the horizon. As of that moment, Jack looked as sober as ever, but Thomas was beginning to mull over his options, be a friend and stop Jack now, or be an even better friend, and just make sure Jack doesn't get robbed or stabbed before he got back to his ship.

The latter carried the most merit. The mood Jack was in, rum was the only answer.

Thomas peered over the top of his cup, watching Elizabeth. Partially submerged in the crush of tavern patrons, she was accepting more congratulations. As hard as she was trying, she wasn't completely comfortable in her surroundings, straining to conceal her disdain for those around her. "She's fresh alright. Not much about her, though; kind o' skinny, all bones."

"Do not underestimate her!" Jack tapped a finger on the table in emphasis. "No foul deed will go unturned, when she wants her way." Jack shuddered and took a gulp, as if to wash away the thought. "She and Teague will make a formidable front."

"You think the old rooster is beddin' her?"

Jack snorted, sputtering in his drink. "Not yet. She's just betrothed of the new captain of the _Flying_ _Dutchman_, although I didn't see it with me own eyes." That qualification seemed to be of some significance. "Still, Teague shan't risk the wrath of the _Dutchman_. Give him time to figure out a way to handcuff dear Captain Turner, and he'll have her before you can say, Bob's your uncle."

"King of the Brethren Court, the _Flying Dutchman,_ and Teague: now there's an unholy alliance, if I ever heard one. I would have lost a lot of money on that bet." The whole thing was a rat's tunnel of intrigue, and Jack was squarely in the middle of it.

Thomas scanned the unknowing crowd with a sympathetic eye. He knew men well enough to know how easily men smelling victory could be rallied and led, just by telling them what they wanted to hear. After the fact, they were primed to be led anywhere, most especially by the one who they perceived as their victor.

"Heaven help them all."

"Aye, well the fates have a way of twisting in us all." There was an unsettling bleakness in that, laden with disappointment and desperation.

Thomas grew sober. As hard as he tried, he couldn't prevent his mind from returning to a matter of far more significance than the skullduggery of Shipwreck. "Why'd you leave her, Jack?"

Jack flinched, knowing exactly to whom Thomas was referred. After all, it was the same person foremost in both minds.

Jack emptied his drink, and drew a tired hand down his face, desperation tingeing his tremulous voice. "I had to; no way around it." He spread his hands, pleading his case, arguing with himself more than Thomas. "There was no way in hell I was going to allow her to be drug into all this Jones business. I had no idea what would come of it. Truth be told, I really did think a couple o' months would be all it would take."

"And it's been over a year?" It was baffling to think that Jack had allowed that much time to slip past.

Jack merely shrugged as he lifted a helpless hand and let it drop.

"Jesus, Jack." Thomas rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. His heart broke for Kate, and the anguish she must have been suffering. Living with Jack had to have toughened her; if anyone could bear up, it would be her. But still... "If I had known you were gonna just skuttle her somewhere…"

A glimmer of his usual humor touched Jack's face. "Exactly why I didn't say anything."

"So, you'd rather see her alone, than protected." It wasn't the first time that he had questioned Jack's judgment, especially when it came to women.

"Protection has many faces."

Thomas laughed again, louder. "You're right; I'd do everything I could to steal her away." Friendship was a two-edged sword; he knew Jack possibly better than Jack knew himself, but the reverse was equally true.

"Don't I know it?" Wincing, Jack's seemed to take strength in knowing that there was someone who might care for Kate if he were unable.

As Jack beckoned the serving wench for another drink, Thomas shifted his attention back to the room. Idly milling through the crowd, the newly anointed Pirate King emerged, her willowy form in full view. Her back turned, Thomas tilted his head and squinted, trying to see past the Oriental trappings. Jack caught his gaze and twisted around to follow it.

"What are you looking at?"

"I'm trying to imagine her in a dress."

"Huh." Jack snorted and shrugged off the suggestion. "Not bloody likely. She's gotten a taste of this world; she'll not be going back."

"What happened, Jack?" Thomas asked, eagerly hunching forward. "I've heard all sorts of wild stories around here. You look like hell, whatever it was."

Jack frowned, looking off at the smoke-blackened beams. "Jones is gone, Beckett, Norrington, Mercer, even the Governor of Port Royal, all gone."

Thomas gave a low whistle. "Going to be a whole new world."

"One can only hope." Sitting back, Jack fell quiet as his drink was delivered then hunched forward. "Things didn't quite go to plan. I need a favor."

Jack's sudden seriousness brought Thomas to attention. "Sure, anything. You know that."

"The _Pearl's_ laid up for at least another day or so. I need to get out to sea... right away." Thomas' quizzical look prompted Jack to expand. "It's a long story. I just need to get out to sea, and soon—before... before it's too late."

"At sea?"

Jack's solemn nod indicated that he was unwilling to elaborate any further. Evasion wasn't a characteristic entirely unknown to Jack, neither was desperation, but there was something worrisome about the way the two of them were coming together.

Thomas gave a resigned sigh. "There's barely an anchor watch aboard, right now. It'll probably take me 'til dawn to gather enough crew and be under way."

"Not soon enough," Jack said in a slurred mumble. "It needs to be as soon as possible. There's things that must be done…"

Thomas looked up just in time to see the King turn and come their way. "Head's up," he muttered under his breath, ducking his nose into his tankard. "She's coming this way."

"Jack!" Elizabeth towered over the table. Her hands propped on her hips, she wore the maternal look that every child knew, the one of the disapproval and reprimand, thinly wrapped in irritation.

Jack jerked, skulking lower in his collar, then finally looked up as a young woman, came up to the table. "Your Royalness."

"I've been waiting."

"Ah, so you have. How time does fly." No one could play innocent better than Jack, and he was currently at his best. His dark eyes slid a cutting look. "Death has been known to do things to a man's power of recollection."

Elizabeth flinched, a sore spot found by Jack's barb, but she recovered quickly, determined not appear weak. "I said, I needed to speak with you."

"Did you, now?" Touching a finger to his chin, Jack rolled his eyes dramatically. "Huh, can't say that I recall that bit.

"I'll be over there," she said with a sharp eye and a toss of her head in the general direction of the door. "Do not keep me waiting." Jerking her head, she turned away and left.

"She might be wise to get over that attitude, just a bit," Thomas said, at her receding figure. He tipped his head, measuring her, and then Jack. "You're sure you're not...."

Jack's eyes bulged, and dove his nose into his cup. "Absolutely not!! Half to be half daft.... more daft."

"Hmm... I'd watch my step, if I were you. She has that look in her eye."

"What look?"

"Good God man! Are you doing dafter by the minute, or are you getting old? You've been around women enough to know that look; she's got her cap set for you." He laughed even louder. "You worried I'm going to run and tell Kate?"

"I wouldn't put it past you," Jack grumbled, then added, "She's married," with blunt finality. "Take it as a warning; give her a wide berth. Do not underestimate her!!"

Jack drained his tankard, and pushed up from his seat, catching the edge of the table as he swayed. "There is nothing, mark me, nothing that would ever prompt me to go anywhere near her."

"Even if she were the last woman on earth?"

"More so because she _was_ the last woman on earth, or so it seemed at the time" said Jack, slightly unfocused.

With that, Jack strolled away, his swagger impeded by a list to port. As he melted into the crowd, Thomas wondered if he should follow Jack. It wouldn't be unusual for the man to need a guardian angel, but surely not now; he was with the King of the Brethren Court.

_Surely she wouldn't kill him._


	38. Chapter 38: Mopping Up

9

**Chapter Thirty-eight: Mopping Up**

**Jack** wove his way through the crowd, mumbling acknowledgments as he pushed past one congratulator after another, finally locating Elizabeth at the tavern door. Patting her foot, she made no effort to hide her impatience.

"Well," he asked, spreading his arms, "where to?" His question caught her off guard. _Victory number one!_

"Where to what?" The response came with a little more innocence than would be likely.

"Clearly, you have a place in mind. You were quite adamant as to where you _didn't_ want to be, so I can only assume that you had a specific place in mind where _did_ you want to be?"

"Umm…" She shifted uneasily, her eyes darting away from the jostling faces of the crowd. Evasive was never one of her strongest acts. "Someplace private; the _Pearl_, perhaps?"

Her suggestion caught Jack unawares, but he managed to hide it behind a leering grin and a lewd wink. "Can't wait to get back on board her, eh?" To his amusement, that pushed her back a step. "C'mon."

While dodging down the streets, through the revelers, Jack was warily curious as to what now was so all fired pressing for Elizabeth. The flames of the torches light the wild-eyed faces, distorted by shadows and drink, with barely human voices, ragged from shouting. The entire town was agog with elation that was reaching macabre levels.

Elizabeth and Jack's progress was slow, being stopped often to listen to tear-laden, drink-slurred testimonials of undying gratefulness and allegiance. Luckily their well-meaning assailants were drunk enough to be easily distracted, allowing them to escape readily. A little over a day earlier, Jack had imagined that he might be able to slip in and out of the Cove without notice.

_No good plan goes unpunished._

Elizabeth proved more adept at slithering out from under the accolades, and stood aside, clearly disappointed at their progress. Jack took satisfaction at her discomfiture and wondered whether she realized that this was what she had bargained for. Drunkenness and carousing; this was piracy, more often than the raiding and plundering, the fact of the matter being that it was far more likely for a pirate to be killed in a port, at the hands of a drunken member of the Brethren, than seeking treasure.

Compared to the town's thick air, the harbor's atmosphere was staggeringly fresh. The _Pearl's_ yards eventually rose over the heads of the mobbed pirates, sitting in her place of honor at the end of the main quay, in all her broken glory. The wharf space had been kept clear, in anticipation of her limping return, and was lovingly guided in by every able hand. It tugged at Jack's gut to see her so broken, and felt the urge to look away then admonished himself for being so cowardly. If she could bear it, then he would bear it with her.

Jack stopped at the foot of the _Pearl's_ gangplank, and cupped his hand to his mouth. "'Hoy on deck!"

Pintel's face peeked over the rail, followed by a beckoning hand. "Ahead, Cap'n."

With the prospect of a grand celebration at hand, the square crewman had protested vociferously—after Jack was thought to be out of earshot—at having to remain on board. Virtually the entire crew was new, leaving but a tiny handful that Jack trusted enough to stand watch.

Lizzie led the way up the plank, Jack pausing to confer with his beleaguered anchor watch. "It's been hell, Cap'n. Everyone wants to say they've been on the _Black Pearl_. Could o' fair sunk 'er right where she lies, wot with all these drunken sods wantin' on board."

Jack had anticipated that the _Black Pearl_ would be a popular site, and would require a stalwart guard. When his mind was set to it, no one could be more pugnacious than Pintel, and his dedication to the _Pearl_ was unquestioned. As for his monocular sidekick, Ragetti, the man still scared him.

Jack clapped Pintel on the shoulder, and gave him a few encouraging words, before he turned to find Lizzie waiting expectantly near the capstan, the shackles dangling near her hip. The juxtaposition being too much to bear, Jack veered off, pulling up at his cabin door. "My cabin?"

Jack hadn't planned on returning that night—he had other, more pressing matters to attend—hence the cabin was dark. With the celebration in town, the _Pearl_ was virtually deserted. Most of the cabin's lamps and candlesticks were gone, what candles there were being set on plates or serviceable pieces of rubble, but none had been lit. The flickering lights of the city glowed through the gaping hole of the gallery, illuminating the room in a soft gold.

Elizabeth started toward Kate's chair, but before Jack could sputter a protest, she sheared off and set to pacing before the shattered windows.

"I thought we should talk." She sounded more tentative than she probably had hoped; uncertainty was a rare trait, as well.

_Why the bloody hell do women think 'talking' is the answer to every malady? Try talking away the plague, or the pox, and leave me be._

She made a gesture toward him, and he ducked away. Conciliation or attack? He wasn't about to wait to find out. "There is nothing I have to say."

Jack was markedly cross at having to cover the same territory… again! He thought he had been ready to carry on a normal—well, semi-normal—conversation with Elizabeth, but the sight of her at the capstan had triggered too many unnerving memories.

"Jack, you've been avoiding me." It came as an accusation, not a question, as her hands worked against each other, pale, ghostly flashes in the dimness.

"Thank you for noticing," he said, circling away, trying to keep distance between them. "Because, contrary to all popular opinion, and past practice, I have—we have—nothing to say"

"You're angry with me." In the dimly light room, it was hazardous going. It had been partially cleared of the battle aftermath, but it was still easy to stumble into unseen obstacles.

"What part of 'nothing' do you not understand? Your father wasted a great deal of money if he paid any amount for your education."

"But we need to talk…"

"About what? The weather? Lovely day, isn't it not? Do you suppose that tomorrow will be as lovely as…"

"Jack you know that's not what I mean." She stopped, balling her fists. "I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry."

"She's sorry!" he declared to the empty room.

His step slowed a fraction, and Elizabeth made a well-timed lunge, seizing him by the arm.

"Don't…!" He jerked away, going rigid. Quickly regaining his composure, he took a shaky breath, the rush of anger serving to clear his rum-fogged head. "Do. Not. Touch. Me. Ever. Again," he said through a set jaw.

She recoiled from his glare, and he slithered away. Her hurt look wasn't the response he had expected. Instantly he knew that he had said too much. Now she knew he harbored a fear of her; in those capable hands, that could be a very dangerous bit of information.

"You're angry."

"No, I'm wise," he shot back over his shoulder, maneuvering to put more space between them. "There is a vast and significant difference."

"You can't think that I would…" Her mouth dropped very unbecomingly.

"What? Kill me… again? Do you have something against seeing me alive?"

"That's not what Will thinks." Lizzie bit her lip. Now she was the one to have said too much. Realizing the same herself, and that there was no taking it back, she forged ahead. "He thinks… otherwise."

"Otherwise?" Jack shook his head, trying to understand where the blazes all this came from. "Otherwise, what? Shackling me to the mast was an accident?"

"No, he thinks…thought… thinks…"

It took no great expert to see that Elizabeth was grossly uncomfortable. It was exactly what Jack had been hoping for, that little chink in the armor. He began circling around interestedly, Elizabeth darting her eyes from one side to the other, avoiding looking at him. "Yes?"

"He thinks…" Defensively hunching her shoulders, Lizzie finally resorted to looking at the floor.

"Really, Lizzie! If there is anything I learned from the Locker, it's that time is of the essence, and so would you please not waste mine."

"Will thinks… that… I love you." She nearly choked on the last as she burst it out, Jack being close enough to see her face flame.

Jack staggered, the sheer level of outrageousness nearly knocking him over. Inwardly he groaned, hoping that her purpose for bringing him there hadn't been for that revelation. His mind reeled as he groped for a response, but the same one kept popping up: Not bloody likely!

"And chaining me to the mast is how you show affection? Really, darling! No wonder Turner was so skittish. Are you going to kill him next?" The entire thought was laughable, which was exactly what he did, jeeringly so. "Oh, no wait, he can't be. You're not going to make a eunuch of him are you? I don't wish to be too indelicate, but might I be allowed to point out that would be markedly against your own best interests."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Touched his tongue to the edge of his lip, thinking. "And what, pray tell, triggered such a bizarre machination?" He began stalking forward, pressing her backwards. "Telling stories behind me back, are we? Calling me name in your dreams?"

"Now you're being absurd!" She edged away as he slinked closer, until she came up hard, cornered between an overturned trunk and the bulkhead.

"Am I now? You must have told him something; Young William doesn't have the imagination to come up with such fallacies all on his onesies. What did you tell him? Were these marriage bed confessions? Were all the young girl's fantasies fulfilled?"

Angry more than afraid, Elizabeth's breath quickened as she tried to worm away from under his weight.

"Afraid I'll shackle you to the mast?" he purred against her neck. "Or drag you to me bunk, perhaps? Is that what you were dreaming of?"

"He saw us kissing." Her eyes flared, filled with the resentment of the forced admission.

The flash of that final moment struck him in the gut, and he fell back, breaking into a cold sweat. He began to raise a hand, to point a finger, and instantly knew it shook too hard. "No, he saw _you_ kissing me."

In the remote reaches of his mind, he knew Lizzie wasn't lying. It did help explain the bristly reactions he had gotten from Will, and maybe not a small amount of his uncharacteristic erratic behavior.

Elizabeth took the opportunity and slipped away, moving well across the room away from him. "This is ridiculous." Exasperated, she drew to a halt. "You lied to me."

"Only in your court would death be the punishment for that."

"You tricked me," she hissed, with an ugly curl to her lip.

"Into what? You got everything you wanted." He began ticking the items off on his fingers. "You wanted to find Will. Done! You wanted to be captain. Done! You wanted the Company defeated. Done! You wanted to marry Will. Done—more or less," he equivocated.

"I wanted to free you from the Locker," she put in quickly, thinking it to be a positive.

"After you wanted me dead," he shot back. "Done and done! You wanted to be King. Done! What in all that's holy, do you want? Has no one in your entire life ever told you 'no'? Listen to me, and carefully: not everyone in the room needs to like you. You can carry on quite famously amid a room full of enemies. And believe me, there is nothing more inspiring or admirable that a dedicated enemy."

He paused, rolling his eyes. "Do you know that the trouble is in being the most powerful person in the room?"

An indignant jerk of the shoulders was her only response.

"There's no one to stop you," Jack went on. "Even though everyone can see that you're on a path for destruction, no one will stop you, because they want your yoke from around their necks."

Despite the dimness, he saw her flinch. Target sighted, target hit.

Veering away, Elizabeth retreated to a far corner. "This isn't what I wanted, Jack."

"Coulda fooled me! I tried to tell you, Lizzie, but you weren't of a mind to listen, as per usual, I might add."

"Since I was a child, I dreamed of pirates," she said with a distant wistful look toward the city. "I snuck everything I could, hiding in my dressing room, reading." She looked over her shoulder at him. "When you pulled me out of the water that day, I thought I was dreaming. I had finally met a pirate. But then at Isla de Muerta, I realized it wasn't what I thought."

"Few people, or things, live up to built up expectations." He was more than familiar with the perils of legends; no human being could fulfill the machinations of an imaginative child, or any other person, for that matter. So much more the reason for never allowing anyone too close, for too long, since such discoveries and pursuant disappointments were never far away. Disillusionment could be a sharp blow, but healing such wounds weren't in his line of work; that's what husbands and loved ones were for. He fit in none of those categories.

"I had made my choice. I was so ready to be married, to have Will, a home, and raise a family…" It was almost a chant, convincing herself more than he. Pacing in front of the gallery, her dark clothing merging with the shadows, her voice seemingly disembodied. "I was drug into this. I was drug into this."

Jack put up a hand, backing away. "Don't look at me! If you'll recall, _you _came looking for _me_. I had nothing to do with it."

"No, I came looking for Will, and stumbled across you. And still, every bit of it I hated. I hated the vile, and the lowness, and the treachery, and the…"

"Wobbly-legged rumpots?"

She ducked her head, embarrassed, her voice dropping to a tight whisper. "Yes, that too. I hated every shred of it, but I had no choice."

"Doing what you must, to get what you wanted most."

"Exactly. The problem is: I'm good at it, the fighting, the blood, the plotting and scheming. It was as if I had stepped out of my skin; I was watching someone else do all those horrible things."

Half-listening to Elizabeth's soliloquy, Jack dropped into Kate's chair. Closing his eyes, he smiled. She was always there, just as she was then, waiting, the simple act of sitting bringing her that much closer. Sometimes she stood in a corner, looking at him expectantly, with those cursed-colored eyes that saw to his soul. Other times, she walked in front of the gallery, her skirts moving with the sway of her hips. "You loved it, and you know it," he said, when Elizabeth was finally quiet.

"Yes, I loved it, but I mourn what I had to surrender to have this. I can't bear to look in the mirror. I'm not… I'm not…"

"Not who you thought you were, eh?" He kept his eyes closed, enjoying his visions while continuing the conversation. "Believe me, none of us, including your dearly beloved, care to think we're capable of what we do, and then hate ourselves for the doing."

Kate turned and began walking, her path leading her in a direct intersection with Elizabeth, and he jerked up, gasping in alarm, Elizabeth giving him a puzzled look.

"You've spoken of destiny, and fate."

Rubbing his face roughly, Jack shrugged, desperately wishing she would get to the point of this _tête-à-tête_. "Fate works for some. It would seem that Will was fated for his role. Meself, I was fated to be at sea."

"You must have been fated to be a pirate."

"I was fated to be at sea," he said with blunt honesty; it was a basic truth to which there was no denial. "As for the rest… it was more by the hand of humanity than anything else."

"I'm no pirate." The declaration came from between clenched teeth and with a renewed resolve.

Jack stifled the chuckle the bubbled up. "Ah, but you are. You've surrendered, given yourself to the red-eyed monster that lives just beneath. You've tasted it, and you love it. It is an elixir as habit-forming as the dragon, but five times more exhilarating."

"I'd rather a warm fireplace, a comfortable chair, my child and my husband."

"That's not freedom."

"Freedom?" She spun around, choking back her frustration. "What does that get you? Cold? Deprivation? Blood? Death?"

"Go up to Teague's quarters," he chuckled, gesturing in the general direction of the city. "He has a lovely hearth, and a very comfortable chair. And, with a little managing, your dearly beloved won't be that far away."

"That's it?" Her voice quaked as she fought to contain her emotions. "That's all I have to look forward to?"

"Darling, there is no peace." With a patient smile, he turned sideways in the chair, draping a leg over the arm. "You desire a ship, but then you need the sea. Once at sea, you need the wind, and with the wind come the waves and storms. So you desire land, but once on land, you dream of ships."

"All sounds rather hopeless. I never wanted…"

"Ohhh, yes you did!" He wagged a reproving finger. "You wanted it, and badly. I witnessed no trepidation when you put your name forth; stepped into the role with gay abandon."

Elizabeth's pace quickened as she groped for a rationale. "We won."

Nodding agreeably, Jack folded his hands on his stomach, idly kicking one foot. "Aye, the pirates prevailed, but it could have too easily gone the other way.

Jack glanced at the window as Elizabeth moved back and forth. It was impossible to tell the time, but he could still feel it slipping away. He had things to do, and Elizabeth was by no means a part of it. He gritted his teeth, hoping that if he finally heard her out, it could be the end of all this business.

Elizabeth ultimately sat heavily on the gallery sill, the light gilding her silhouette as she examined her hands where they laid on her lap. "The _Empress' _crew was already beginning to rumble; they hated me."

Biting back several acid remarks regarding her sulkiness, Jack pursed his lips, considering the broader point. "Hate? I rather think not. Resentment? Most probably. You've been aboard a ship a grand total of what, a year?"

Elizabeth gave a self-conscious nod.

"Ah. While they've spent a lifetime, _and_ you're a woman, to boot. Can you blame them?" The mere fact that she had been so willing to accept command was proof in and of itself that she was unprepared, failing to appreciate the enormity of the position. "You can bully men into obeying, but that won't make them want, nor respect, you as their captain."

"Mistress Ching managed."

Jack genuinely laughed. "I wouldn't use her as me life's yardstick, if I were you. She grew up on a ship, and married a man of the sea, who was a veritable terror himself. She gained a great deal of respect, and fear, when she killed him, and has killed anyone who got in her way. Granted, you made a good start with killing me, but it's a difficult way to maintain the respect of a crew. I would imagine there's a certain amount of that biography that you'd prefer not to repeat."

"What about Mary Read and Anne Bonney?"

"Pirates, true enough," he nodded agreeably. "Both were adept enough seaman to pass as such, but never were they captains. I suspect you knew a lanyard from puddening, but that, darling, is a far cry from commanding a ship."

"Sometimes Will looks at me like he doesn't even know me, as if I've changed. And other times, I see nothing but pride and admiration. I love him, Jack. I'd do anything for him."

"Anything? Are you willing to walk away, _Your Royalness_?"

"You mean, go back to what I was? Certainly… well, maybe…" Elizabeth slumped in frustration. "I don't know. I never wanted to be my mother."

Realizing she had said too much, she struggled for several minutes then finally continued. Rose turned her back, facing the window, the lights of the city glowing. "Father always told me that Mother had died, but I was old enough to remember that she hadn't. She left."

Shaking her head, she clamped her lower lip between her teeth. "Poor Father; I can't imagine how he must have felt after I left, abandoned by two women in his life." In her frustration, she jerked the combs from her hair and shook it out.

"Matters of the heart are always painful." Jack was forced to pause to clear the tightness that seized his throat, carefully keeping his eyes averted from Kate's usual places to appear. "Everything comes with a price; how much are you willing to pay?"

Elizabeth turned enough to be able to look at him over her shoulder. "How much have you paid?" she asked, in honest curiosity.

"Many times, more than I have." He swallowed a large lump. "The purse is often empty."

"Mother ran off… several times." Broaching childhood forbidden realms didn't come easily, and it took Lizzie several tries before she elaborated. "I have two brothers and a sister, none of whom look like father." She paused, allowing Jack to come to his own conclusions. "I'm the youngest; luckily I looked so much like her, it was easy for Father to pretend that I was his."

"Were you?"

"Maybe." The admission was a painful one. "When she was in trouble, Father would take her back; there were reconciliations," she ended lamely. The fallibilities of parents, and their sexual foibles, were mostly difficult matters for a child of any age to confront.

Jack had a new sympathy for Weatherby Swann, to go through all that, and still be willing to take his wife back; he had to have been very in love with the woman. It would seem abandonment had left its mark in many places, jading everyone it touched. There had been a time, when Jack would have thought such a thing to be improbable, even impossible, but no longer. For himself, to contemplate such a loss was too uncomfortable.

"Secrets aren't that easily kept. I heard the servants whispering, or Father arguing with family when they would visit."

Her voice fell further, and in that moment, she was the little girl again, listening at keyholes to the adults around her, manipulating both her and her life. It harkened too closely to Jack's own youth, and ill-kept secrets, and he felt a sharp wave of compassion. Elizabeth was a formidable foe, to be sure, but no one deserved that level of disillusionment so early in life.

She moved to sit on the sill, idly tracing her finger through the rubble.

"Father pampered and doted on me, I think because he was pretending I was her, thinking maybe he could somehow cause her to come back. He was always waiting, waiting for her to come back."

"And?"

A long look and silence from her was answer enough.

"I knew she was alive." She smiled, her eyes lighting. "Sometimes, I would receive a letter from her. They always came from exotic places, with strange writings. They were never long, just enough to let me know that she was thinking of me, to tell me that her leaving had nothing to do with me. She just couldn't bear the proper life. I began to fancy that she had met the love of her live, a pirate, someone dark and dashing," she said, her gaze lingering on Jack, "and she was sailing the seas, free forever.

"As I grew older, Father feared that people would begin to talk, so he used his connections with the King for a position away from England." Her eyes darkened. "It didn't make any difference."

"What of your brothers and sister?" The loss of family wasn't unknown to him, either, a sister dead, and a brother unseen for decades.

Elizabeth shrugged, the light glinting on the extra wetness at the corner of her eye. "Gone. I haven't seen or heard from any of them since we left England. I know Father still… did support them, but other than that, I have no idea." Roughly brushed away a tear. Curled a fist, resolutely pounding her leg. "I swore I wouldn't be like her. I vowed that I would find happiness and hold on to it."

"Be who you are. Will will not love you more for living a lie."

"Is that what you've done?"

Her perceptiveness brought him up short, fearing that she might know more about him than he cared to think. "You're a good man, Jack, living in a very bad world."

"Some of us have more choices than others," he muttered, industriously brushing at a non-existent spot on his front.

Lizzie heaved a groaning sigh as she abruptly stood. "This isn't what I came here to talk about."

"Now there's an irony!" Jack chuckled, humorlessly. "Two people, in the same room, both talking about what they don't want to talk about!"

"I wanted…" She started several times, and then finally took a deep breath, and blurted it out. "Will you stay?"

Stricken speechless, his mouth moved wordlessly, and then he broke out laughing. "There's not enough gold in this world…"

"Please, Jack, I'm asking." She took several steps toward him then drew up sharply. "Please stay, at least for a little while."

In that instant, Jack was grateful for the cover of darkness, hoping to keep hidden his own emotions. "Everyone in this blessed affair has gotten something they wanted, some more than others, I might add," he said with an accusing look. "Now, it's my turn."

She stiffened at his refusal, her mouth setting in a firm line as she raised her chin. "The old selfish Jack Sparrow is back."

"You say that as if it were a negative. Believe me, it's all in the perspective."

Moving closer yet, Elizabeth stood over him, peering down her nose. "Don't forget I'm King; I could order it."

"And don't forget that I'm unimpressed. Go ahead," Jack choked, fighting off another round of laughter. "Try it; see what rewards those efforts will bring."

Familiarity bred knowledge; it was a simple axiom, and such was the case then. He was beginning to learn to read her, as she went through her bag of tricks: one corner of the mouth curling meant she was perturbed or provoked. A willful gesture wasn't far away. A rounding of the mouth, and a narrowing of one eye; scheming was in process. Be wise, and be alert. Just then, it was an arch of the brow and a slight drop of the head; charm and manipulation were on their way.

"I need you, Jack."

"Don't give me that 'hurt little girl' look," he said wagging a finger. "Nor the indignant mistress," he added at her evolution of expressions. "Neither wears well, with a sword at your waist." He gave a derisive snort. "You don't need me. You have your minions."

"I need help. I don't know what to do." She pleaded, her eyes brimming.

"That was difficult for you to admit, wasn't it?" he asked thoughtfully, a bit surprised by her sudden honesty. "Well here's another difficult lesson, one I'm very sure with which you are neither accustomed, nor familiar: no!"

"We'll see about that," she huffed, and spun around, her heels pounding the planking as she made for the door.

Sketching a haphazard salute in the air, Jack settled his head comfortably in the crook of the chair, smiling not at her, but at the visions of Kate that immediately returned. "At your pleasure, My Liege. I suggest you talk to the wind, because that's all that will be left."

**Thomas** stepped out from between the shacks that dotted the wharf's end, where Shipwreck's fishing fleet was tied off. Well past midnight, the town was still in full celebration, but none of it had strayed to the deserted end, allowing the shadowy figure he had been following to move without notice. Bracing on his hands on hips, he peered down from the edge of the dock into the fishing boat below.

"What are you doing, Jack?"

Jack barely hesitated, going through the motions of preparing to make way. "Can't imagine what you're talking about, mate."

"Well, you're stealing a boat—not much of one, I might add," Thomas observed, with a critical eye then looked skyward. "And in the middle of the night."

Jack straightened a bit unsteadily. "I need to… to…"

"Never mind; never would have expected the truth from you anyway." Thomas' uncertainty as to what to do next was brief. "Oh, hell, if you're gonna be this crazy," he muttered under his breath, and leaped down into the craft. "Move over, and let me help."

Jack jerked away, wobbling precariously. "I can manage."

"Ordinarily, I would agree, but not in the shape you're in."

From all indications, Jack was considerably more sober than he had been some hours earlier. As far as the boat was concerned, Jack's level of drunkenness was of little import; he could sail a wagon, with nothing more than his shirt for a sail, and still be the first one there. Thomas' concerns grew from a gut feeling that Jack was up to something, and he didn't trust the capabilities of Jack's guardian angel, not this time.

"You've noticed, I hope, that there's no wind?" Thomas asked, not bothering to guard his irritation.

Jack waved a vague hand as he worked at the sheets. "Out there is plenty."

"Aye." Thomas squinted dubiously across the black satin of the harbor. Well over halfway across, the sliver of the moon glimmered on a ruffling of the water. "And it's a fair wind, once we've skulled ourselves silly getting to it. I'll take it first." He waved Jack away from the tiller and hunched down next to it. "Let's cast off, before we're both caught and drug up before the Keeper."

He knew better than to utter Teague's name; the mood Jack was in, there was no need in adding any more fuel to the fire.

Well over twenty feet in length, the cat boat was too wide to be rowed, and the water was too deep to pole. In the absence of wind, skulling was the only answer, rapidly working the rudder like a fish's tail to maneuver, albeit at a snail's pace. When not taking his turn, Jack stood at the shrouds, staring ominously quiet, either jerking when spoken to, or was oblivious.

Eventually the little craft's bow nosed into the wind-rippled water, and the two men set the asymmetrical sail in a seaman's ballet, neither uttering a word, yet each knowing the other's move with seamless precision. As they cleared Devil's Throat, entering the open waters, a freshened breeze met them and together they lifted their faces to it. The boat's shallow draft allowed them to cut across several of the treacherous reefs that defined the Cove's entrance, saving them a considerable amount of tacking. Both knew the water, Jack—even in his semi-impaired condition—moreso, by virtue of having lived there for a time.

"What's the heading to be?"

"Doesn't matter." Distracted, Jack seemed puzzled by the question. "Anywhere out there will do."

"Anywhere?" Thomas bit back a number of coarse remarks. "You drag me out here in the dead of dark to just sail anywhere?"

Evasiveness was an art to Jack, but he was being both tight-lipped and maddeningly vague. Finally, he muttered something about near where the battle had taken place the morning before.

"You'll have to give me more than that." Thomas was more than a bit irritated at having to point that out. "Since I wasn't there, I have no idea where…"

"That way!" Jack cut in, pointing a rigid arm off the quarter bow.

Jack's figure was but a dark blur against the shimmering black water, but his growing tension was still apparent, his eyes perpetually searching the water. He seemed to be completely pre-occupied, mustering his courage to face something he was compelled toward, yet at the same time, dreaded.

"What are we doing out here?" Thomas finally pleaded, trying to keep it as conversational as possible.

"Unfinished business," was all Jack would say. By the hunch of his shoulders, it was apparent that he knew it was a grossly insufficient answer, but had no intention of expanding.

Eventually the proclamation, "This will do," came from Jack, lacking any reassuring conviction, and he set to dropping the sail. Once the sails had been stowed, the boat bobbed aimlessly as Thomas sat next to the tiller watching Jack stare at the water.

"Look, Jack, you know that ordinarily, I would go along with any hair-brained scheme you have, but this is bordering on lunacy. What the bloody hell are we…?"

"Looking for someone." Jack gaze never left the water. "He should be around here, somewhere."

Thomas scowled at that, struggling to contain his frustration. "If we're looking for someone killed in the fight, we shoulda been out here in the daylight. It's going to be…"

"Any idea of how to beckon the _Flying Dutchman_?"

Jack could do it on a regular basis, and he had just done it again, rendering Thomas speechless. Closing his gaping mouth, Thomas tiredly rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. "The Grim Reaper of the Sea? No, Jack, I don't. Most folks, with any amount of sense, spend their days trying to avoid Jones, not…"

"Not Jones anymore; it's Bill's boy." Jack stepped up to balance on the gunwale, grasping the spreader as he peered closer at the dark water below.

The bleakness in Jack's voice brought Thomas a chilling thought. It all made sense now. He never would have thought Jack to be capable of it, but now he wore the look of a man that had lost one too many battles. Defeated. Broken. Dejected. The stories he had heard back at the Cove came rushing back: death, doom, betrayal; he had dismissed as just wild rumors. There wasn't a man alive that didn't have his breaking point.

"Bloody hell, Jack. Did you come out here to kill yourself?"

Thomas scrambled up behind Jack, wildly grasping for any argument to stop him. "Think of Kate; she's still waiting for you, you know she is. Whatever the hell happened, happened. We'll get the _Pearl_ repaired, and you back to Kate, in no time. Hell, I'll take you there…" He grabbed Jack by the arm, as he leaned forward. "Dammit to hell, Jack!"

Startled, Jack blinked, his dazed look fading into a vague smile. "Kill meself?" His smile brightened. "Of course! You're a diamond, mate!"

One minute, he was there, and another minute he was gone, slipping too easily from Thomas' frantic grasp, nothing but a ghostly white blur, marked by the splash of water.


	39. Chapter 39: Parting Parlay

**Chapter Thirty-nine: Parting Parlay**

**Jack** wasn't quite sure how it came to pass that he was lying on a deck, but he didn't find the sensation alarming, disorientation seeming to be a permanent state, of late. The last he knew, the water was pressing harder and harder as he slipped toward the bottomless depths, the pale glow of the moon fading in a ghostly circlet overhead. Eventually, euphoria overtook him, reality fading, only to be rudely interrupted by a rolling lurch, and the hardness of a deck under his cheek.

Lifting his head from the hard wood, he found Thomas standing a short distance away. Dripping wet, and surrounded by men, he glowered at Jack with a "What the hell, now?" look on his face.

"Are you trying to kill yourself, Jack?"

The heated demand wasn't Thomas' voice, but a familiar one, nonetheless. Rolling on his side, Jack looked up to find Will standing over him. Squinting through water cascading down his face, it took Jack a few moments to fully realize where he was, the _Flying Dutchman _had taken such a remarkable transition. No longer encased in a crust of all things of the sea, the ship was still foreboding, but minus her sinister aura. Before, she had smelled like the bottom of a moldering hold, dank and musty, rotting fish and sea life long gone bad thickening the air, her treacherous, slime-ridden timbers echoing with the ever-present sound of dripping water. He'd been in caves that were cozier. Now, her timbers were bare, darkened only by the patina of time, her planking smooth and sleek, and her crew appearing no different than any other.

"Had to find you somehow," Jack grumbled as he scrambled up, and then shook off like a great dog, water flying in all directions.

"Did you ever think of calling?" Will's tone was far too reminiscent of a scolding nannie. "You're not the one immortal, remember? I might not be close enough to save your ass next time."

"How was I supposed to know?" Jack asked, wiping his face with a sodden sleeve.

A derisive snort came from Thomas' direction.

"You wouldn't, I suppose." Will softened, smiling wryly. "I guess we're all still learning, aren't we? Next time, just call. You look miserable; come down to my cabin." He hesitated, gesturing in Thomas' general direction. "Does your friend…?"

"No, he'll bide here." Jack turned and gave Thomas a pointed look. "I'm sure he can find _something _with which to entertain himself. I shan't be long."

Thomas rolled his eyes and grimly nodded.

As Will led them away, Jack heard the sound of Bootstrap's voice behind him calling, "Thomas, you ol' piece of oakum!" and knew that he need not be worried for Thomas' sake; a long awaited reunion was nigh.

Will led them past the gunwale where Jack had last seen him, slumped with a sword in his chest. Now it was just an unobtrusive, shadowed corner, but the scene was one that was permanently etched in his mind.

Compared to the darkness on deck, the Great Cabin was a blaze of candles and lamps, casting the room in an amber glow. Since the last time Jack had seen it, the room had made the same striking change as the rest of the ship, almost normal, if there were such a word for such a place. Jack conceded that he could have made a life there, but it would have been a new definition of Hell. It wasn't natural for a ship to be skulking about at the bottom of the ocean, popping up willy-nilly like a cork out of a rum bottle, at the whim of God-knew what.

Will stood with his shoulder propped against the door frame and his arms crossed, allowing Jack to idly explore the cabin unhindered.

"No charts?" Jack asked, stopping at the desk.

Will shook his head. "The ship knows… somehow," he added lamely. "I haven't been here long enough to understand exactly how everything works."

That point brought another puzzling bit: how did one come to learn the tasks of the Grim Reaper of the Deep? Jack supposed that he could count himself lucky that such details were not of any of his concern.

A very skillful likeness of Elizabeth lying on the table caught Jack's eye. Rendered in charcoal on a bit of parchment, the artist had done a credible job of capturing not only her appearance, but her spirit revealed in her eyes, and the set of her head.

"You did that?" Jack asked peering interestedly.

A faint smile played on Will's face. "No, one of the men that saw her and thought I might like it."

Jack nodded approvingly; it was a good sign that the crew were already thinking of Will as their captain. With Jones' protracted sojourn, one couldn't always expect allegiances to transfer so readily.

King of the Deep, married to the King of the Brethren Court_. Would have lost a lot of money on that bet,_ _the Princess of Port Royal, now King of all those less than princely. _It was always a fascination to see the improbable meet with the impossible.

Jack poked about the world that was almost his, stalling for time, examining every niche, absent-mindedly trailing his fingers, picking up and putting down random items, without actually seeing any of it, all the while cocking a wary eye toward Turner. Jack fancied himself a fair judge of people, and Will bore the look of a man with something to say. The mind reeled as to what the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ could possibly want. Retribution? Revenge? Reward? None of those boded well.

Halting, Jack looked expectantly around, rocking on his heels. "Anything to drink around here?" The need to steady his nerves had reached an overwhelming proportion.

"Jones left some whiskey."

"Pah! Bloody Scot." Jack grimaced, and made a face. "I can't abide the stuff, but beggars can't be choosers." Kate had professed to prefer whiskey, a leftover from having lived in the Highlands. No more reasons were necessary beyond that.

Jack continued to stroll around the room, while Will retrieved the bottle from a desk drawer, the clink of the bottle and the sound of the liquid purling into the glass cutting the quiet.

It struck Jack then what was so odd: silence. The ship moved unnaturally, without the familiar rock of wind and wave, on her own volition, driven by forces unseen. Absent were the sounds typical of a ship: sheets and tackles groaning under their burdens, sails thrumming or the popping of the planking, not even the subtle vibration of the rudder. Nothing, as if the ship was dead as well.

"You're not having any?" Jack inquired as he took the proffered glass. He never considered the lad as a drinker, but a bit sharing a drink might have helped ease the tension between them.

"Not right now. Things don't seem to taste quite the same, yet."

Jack flinched at the reference to Will's new state of existence, and took an eager gulp. He made a face and shuddered; if he didn't need it so badly, he would have never risked the vile concoction. Not like the friendly sweet of rum, whiskey was like a rude slap from a cranky whore.

"How goes it with your father?" It was a transparent attempt on Jack's part to break the awkward quiet as he resumed his tour of the cabin.

"We're together, finally. Thank you, Jack." The gratitude came with genuine honesty. "I appreciate your efforts, even if they were a bit misguided at times. You were right, Jack. He is a good man."

The admission came grudgingly. At their first meeting, Will had reared at Jack's suggestion that Turner Senior had been a pirate, but it seemed Will had finally come to terms with it. The term "good man" was hardly a compliment, in Jack's book, certainly not a status for which he had strove, spending a decade trying to dissuade such accolades.

"How unfortunate for him," grumbled Jack. "There seems to be blessed few rewards in this world for that little flaw in one's character."

Will reclined in a chair and casually crossed his ankles, his fingers tented to his lips while he tracked Jack's path with his eyes. As Jack roamed the cabin, he assessed Will through a series of glances. Turner already possessed an air of belonging. His voice held a new serenity and confidence; he already knew his roll, and was comfortable with it, wearing it like a glove. The good-natured eyes were still there, but the boy's smile was a bit strained, still seeing the world too seriously. It would seem whatever powers that be knew exactly what they were doing, and led one to wonder how their judgment could have been so flawed when they had selected Jones so long ago

"So," Jack began as he circled behind Will, with an ungainly attempt to broach the reason he had come. "You're still here."

"I was waiting to make sure Elizabeth was safe." Will's countenance darkened. "You didn't wait for her, Jack."

"There were… pressing matters."

It was a feeble lie, but a handy one, one that Turner saw through, but chose not to press. His shirt gapped as he twisted around to see Jack, the raw and ragged scar across his chest glaring, a stark, chilling reminder of his violent ascension to his new throne.

"How is it between you and Elizabeth?"

Jack winced at seeing the scar, and briefly touched his own chest, assured by the steady thump he found there. "Fine. As long as she stays on her side of the world, and I on mine, everything will be just rosy."

Jack stopped in front of the massive organ, an archaic looking thing that filled the stern section of the cabin, with fluted tubes that arched up either side with the ribs of the ship. He fingered two of the keys, and jerked back when the blasted thing belched out an unearthly drone, steam shooting from its tubes.

He fell back another few steps, and flashed a nervous smile. "Didn't know the thing was loaded."

Jack couldn't shake the feeling that he was being toyed with, an axe waiting to fall. Will had seemed sincere enough that he bore no grudge, but it was undeniable that he was looking for something. There was a gaping chasm of things unsaid between them, and until that was spanned, it was going to be nigh impossible to discuss anything else.

"I… emm…"

"I know, Jack," Will cut in, seeing Jack's discomfort. "There's what a man can do, and what he can't do. Am I right? There's no hard feelings. I know now this is where I belong." He gave a grim smile. "It would seem Tia Dalma—Calypso, that is—knew more than any of us.

"Don't get me wrong, Jack. I miss Elizabeth, with every fiber of my being." Will's eyes warmed with affection as he lovingly looked down at the drawing on the table before him. "But this is my duty, what I was born for—just as you were born to be a captain." He sighed, his brow furrowing. "I love her so much, sometimes I think I can still feel my heart. I should thank you, Jack," He said after several moments. "There wasn't time… before."

"Thank me for what: reuniting you with your father? It's what you wanted," Jack said a bit defensive. "Downright boorish, you were."

"Sorry." Will bend his head and rubbed his nose to hide a smile. "I didn't mean to impose. I meant I should thank you for making Elizabeth king."

_Enough already!_ Jack thought, rolling his eyes. _The whole thing is over and done! _There were far larger and more pressing matters to attend.

"Not my doing, mate. She wanted it."

"Yes," Will agreed easily. "And, from what I understand, you made it possible."

Jack looked up from idly spinning a globe. "Oh, well, you're welcome. T'was me pleasure."

"Don't flatter yourself too much, Jack." Will's mouth took an ironic twist. "You got what you wanted."

"Only in a manner of speaking. Immortality aside, all I wanted one person dead—very dead."

"Nothing for the grander cause?" The good-natured taunt in Will's voice was very familiar.

Jack pivoted around on one heel, with a sharp look. "What do you think?"

"I thought not." Will smiled at his own insight. "That would require you to be thinking of someone other than yourself."

Jack shrugged off the soft barb, flopping down in the captain's chair, a gothic, high-backed monster of a thing with gargoyle-like heads arcing skyward. "Pirates have managed quite nicely for over two hundred years; they didn't need me to prevail."

"They needed the _Black Pearl,_ and the _Black Pearl_ needed her captain."

Raising his glass in a silent, half-salute, Jack graciously accepted the subtle compliment.

"What are you going to do with her, Jack?"

"'Do with her?'" he echoed blankly. "The _Pearl_?"

"No. Elizabeth." Will shifted uncertainly, studying his hands, sliding a look from under his brow. "She fancies you; I know that."

Jack draped one leg over the arm of the chair, and idly wagged one foot. "Machinations! She was in love; a woman in that state can start thinking all sorts of wild things. Get all those urges, all stirred up…" He shuddered. "No accounting for what can happen then."

"You fancy her." It was more a statement than a question.

_Gads! Lizzie was right!_ That explained a great number of things. It was a fascinating befuddlement how two so freshly wed could be so anxious to drag him into the middle. By his estimation, although not complete authority on the matter, marriage beds were best if only two were to occupy it at any one given time.

"Ah, I've seen this before: I say, 'No,' and you kill me for thinking your wife is unbecoming; I say, 'Yes,' and you send me to the Locker for coveting your wife."

"It's not a trick. Can you give me your word?"

"Word for what?" Jack gave a long uncertain look, taking several moments to pick up on the suggestive lilt in Will's voice, and then broke out laughing. "Elizabeth?" he gaped, incredulous. "You think I've come here to ask permission to shag your wife? Believe me! You can have your murderess—as best that can be managed, at any rate."

Jack emptied his drink on that thought. A dutiful host, Will rose, eyeing Jack as he stood over him, pouring.

"I mean it, Jack." In an instant, all of Will's levity was gone; he was as dark and ominous as his ship.

"No more than I," Jack shot back, equally serious. "And just for the record, it's not the sort of thing one asks permission."

Throwing his head back, Jack quaffed down nearly half the glass before continuing. "With all due respect to the lovely Mrs. Dutchman, there isn't enough gold on this earth that would get me anywhere near her. Just being on the same island is too close. Truth be told, I fancied the idea of being here waiting when her final day came. The idea of sending her to the Locker was…" Will's sharp look stopped him in mid-sentence. "Well, never mind. Beside the point, at this point."

Appearing to be appeased by Jack's reply, Will moved back around the table. He passed through the pool of moonlight that shafted down through the skylight, his image briefly going from human warm to ghostly silver and back again. He paused to thoughtfully tracing the lines of the face in the drawing, touching the cheek with the same tenderness as if it was her skin. "You told me once, 'Not all treasure is silver and gold.'"

"Did I? Doesn't sound like me, but wise words, nonetheless."

Jack recalled the moment distinctly, in the hollows of a cave, lurking. Oh, had he only know then the import that those words would bear. He'd found his treasure, but by no means had it been in a cave. But like any treasure, how does one keep it safe? Away, for no one to see, and appreciate his luck of the find, or in his possession at all times, to bask in its beauty?

"You told me, if I locked my heart away, I'd lose her forever."

"I said that, too, eh?" Hearts struck Jack as a particularly sensitive issue of late. How could he lock or unlock something that was already held by another? There was every possibility that the reason he had failed at becoming the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ was because his heart wasn't his to give; someone else held it

"I miss her, Jack, so much I swear I can still feel my heart, aching." Jack felt each of Will's words strike a resonant chord of his own loss. "You have no idea what it's like to have someone that means so much, you'd be willing to do anything to see them safe."

Jack winced, studying the amber contends of his glass as he swirled it. "No, I don't suppose I would."

"I've known my whole life that Elizabeth was the only one for me. Do you know what it was like, to be able to look at her and say, 'She's the one. She's my treasure. There are no others'?" Will looked up, a blush rising from his collar. "Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to."

Jack mumbled something unintelligible, looking away until he was able to arrange his face.

Will took Jack's uncertainly to be concern and gave an appeasing smile. "If you're worried about Jones, Jack, you can relax. As far as I am concerned, your curse went down with him."

"A minor side light," Jack snorted.

Seated, Will folded his hand on his stomach and crossed his ankles, looking a bit over-confident, to Jack's way of thinking. "Obviously, you want something."

Jerking, Jack shifted under Will's stare. "What, you're a bloody mind reader, now?"

"Something like that. Comes with the territory, I imagine." A brief look of doubt flickered across Will's face then he gestured toward the outside. "Out in the ocean, at night, in a fishing boat, and now here, on the _Flying_ _Dutchman_. C'mon, Jack, I've never known you to do a single thing that doesn't have an ulterior motive."

For several moments, Jack gleaned and examined his options in broaching the subject that was foremost on his mind. "Where's Beckett?" It was blunt, and contrary to his usual methods, but he couldn't help but sense he was running out of time. He peeled a cautious look from the corner of his eye. "Already…dispatched?"

Will's mouth quirked regretfully. "No, we had too many to deal with to be that quick about it, but he wasn't going to be a problem. He's secured away, nevertheless; he won't be worrying you or anyone else ever again. Did you go through all this just to see Beckett dead?"

Jack's fist curled at his sword. It wasn't his own sword; that had been left impaling Jones' heart. The one at his side now was a miserable thing from the _Pearl's _armory, but would still have been sufficient weapon to go find the bastard right then, and make doubly sure he was dead, trice over, if necessary. "I went through all that, just to be the one _waiting_ when Beckett arrived." Jack nonchalantly examined his fingernails, holding his breath as he waited for his answer. "And where might someone of his… ilk….wind up?"

"That's not my decision. I only deliver. There are others to handle those matters." Will cocked his head, lifting a knowing brow. "You're thinking, Jack. I can hear you clear over here."

"Might there still be a Locker? Or was that just one of Jones' diversions?" The question didn't come without a struggle. With it came the unveiling of what he wanted most, everything he had strove toward for so long could be wiped away with a single word.

Will shrugged. "I'm not sure." He closed his eyes for several moments, going very still. "Yes," he said with a surprise in his voice. "Yes, it's still there. What is it, Jack?" He chuckled interestedly. "Worried I might send you there? Don't worry, not unless you were to harm Elizabeth."

"Bloody little chance of that."

Will went pensively quiet, his forehead wrinkling then looked up in disbelief. "You want Beckett in the Locker."

"Fitting, don't you think?" Jack beamed.

"It won't change what he did to you."

Jack waved the non-concern away, drumming his fingers on the chair arm. "I know that. Not looking to change history, just add another page." He took another drink in search of additional courage, his voice roughened by the whiskey. "How long can he be kept there?"

"For as long as I like, I imagine. How long did you have in mind?"

Jack went still, his pulse quickening. His goal was close, so very, very close. "A millennium. I want him to suffer, every miserable moment of forever." Caught up in his own vehemence, Jack slid a self-conscious glance at Will, caught his own vehemence.

"Very well, in exchange for what?" A catlike smile grew. "Leverage, remember, Jack?"

Jack inwardly groaned at the unexpected glitch, but wasn't surprised. The lad had certainly been learning. "Ah, negotiations, is it?" Settling comfortably in his chair, he motioned to Turner. "Very well, your terms?"

"She'll need protecting, Jack."

Jack made a derisive noise; there was no need in asking of whom Will spoke. "_She_ is the wife of the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_; no one in their right mind is going to risk messing with that."

"You know that's not true. They're pirates; they'll risk a maybe, on the promise of what might be for sure. Mind her for me, Jack. She's going to need it."

Jack hadn't planned on this conversation; he hadn't come there to discuss Elizabeth, and by his estimation, matters that he considered settled and done Too agitated to sit, he jumped up under the guise of getting another drink. He took a drink, to wash away the thought, and then set to strolling the room again, allowing for time to arrange his thoughts. He could feel Will's eyes on him, following his every step. His fingers tented at his lips, watched Jack like a wretched cat, too sated at the moment to pounce, but selecting it prey for the next time.

"Get yourself another guppy, mate. I've business in other places."

"Then the accord is off."

Jack whirled around, gaping. "What?"

"Mind her for me, Jack." The candle caught the cold glitter in Turner's eyes. "But I swear, if you harm her, you lay one hand on her…"

"Aren't you warning the wrong person?" huffed Jack, stabbing a finger into his own chest. "Remember, she killed me?"

"She's alone, Jack."

"Your beloved is exactly where she wanted to be, ordering about a mindless rabble." Annoyed, Jack rolled his eyes, and waved away Turner's concerns as he strolled the cabin. "There's no worries. Ol' Teague will be more than happy to take care of her, as long as she's useful to maintain that blessed Code of his. She'll keep the men in line, and he can keep her in line. But when he's finished, God help her."

"You help her." It wasn't a request, nor even a forceful suggestion, but a calculated command.

"Take a good look." Squaring himself before Will, he spread his arms in display. "I'm not God!"

"But you are her creator." Will's voice fell to a bare, unwavering whisper.

Jack squirmed under the weight of Will's expectant look. _Why the bloody hell not? _For the briefest of moment, he considered the scenario Turner suggested: a protracted stay at Shipwreck Cove, playing Lizzie's safeguard and eunuch consort. He even allowed a flashing thought of sending Thomas to bring Kate to him. Then his veins turned to ice; Kate at Shipwreck… with Lizzie and Teague an arm's length away, and the_ Flying Dutchman _circling.

_Not bloody likely! _There were so many flaws in that line of thinking he couldn't begin to address them all.

The fact of the matter was that Lizzie would need no assistance, that he would be able to provide, at any rate. He would do what he could for her, which was bloody little to nothing, but Turner had overlooked that not so minor detail.

"Very well. We have an accord."

Will's smile of relief faded quickly and he narrowed one eye, scrutinizing Jack. "There's someone else, isn't there?" His face brightened with discovery, Jack's ruffled silence his answer. Will laughed, astounded. "I never thought I'd see it: Jack Sparrow worried for someone else!"


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter Forty: Pressing the Issue**

**Jack** sputtered, nearly choking on the whiskey he had just taken, made necessary by the distasteful agreement he had just been forced to make. Roughly wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he threw Turner an annoyed look.

"This mind reading is rather annoying, you know." Jack cast a furtive look upward, to see if there was anyone else lurking about. All he needed was one more person in his head! _On the other hand, what the Hell! What's one more?_

"Quite handy, actually." Will looked entirely too smug for Jack's personal taste. "No more pretenses, no more lying; just the truth, straight and simple."

"Sounds bloody awful," grumbled Jack, burying his nose in his glass.

"You should try it, Jack, like now, when you want something. Who is she?"

" Someone. No one. Just a…" Wincing at the pain of trivializing Kate so off-handedly, Jack waved off Will's inquiry.

It didn't work.

"C'mon, Jack! You expect me to believe that you're here on behalf of a complete stranger?" Will raised a hand, quelling Jack's objections, quietly chuckling at Jack's discomfiture. "Never mind; I'll know her when I see her."

Jack would have preferred to have started this discussion on his own schedule, choosing the most opportune moment, but Turner smelled a weakness, and had taken the initiative, hence seizing the upper hand. Now Turner knew exactly what he wanted, what—or rather who—was primary in his mind. It was an uncomfortable feeling to be so exposed; after having spent a lifetime developing thick defenses to prevent such things, Jack was wholly unfamiliar with the feeling.

Now Turner, or anyone else the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ chose to tell, would have leverage. Jack couldn't help but feel as if he had just put a large circle on Kate's chest, making her an easy target, not from someone that wanted to do her harm, but to go through her in order to hurt him. He was very accustomed to moving among his enemies. Most of his life, there had been only two things to worry about: himself and his ship. Now there was a third, more vulnerable, and vastly more precious.

"Rest assured; this is an exercise in futility, because you'll never get near her."

"Really?" Will leaned forward and propped his chin interestedly in his hand. "Has she gone swimming, lately, taken a bad step and fallen off a dock, leaned over the edge of a longboat just that little bit too far, or—heaven forbid," he went on, void of any regret, "fall overboard?"

Jack narrowed one eye, a tremor of tightly leashed anger pulsing through him, his hand curling at his side. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Jack had the uneasy sense that Turner wasn't done; either there was something else that he wanted even more than the first. It didn't bode well, because Jack too had saved his best for last.

"I just agreed…"

"That was for Beckett." Will's voice was cold with confidence. "This is a new negotiation, now."

Jack's eyes narrowed over the edge of his glass. "Perceptive and wise; a dangerous combination. It would seem sailing the underworld has washed the stars from your eyes."

Jack glanced around to assure that they were alone—as alone as possible on a ship, at any rate. He could swear the bulkheads had eyes. He took a deep breath, measuring his options. His choices were to trust, and leave with everything he had come for, or don't, and leave as empty-handed as he had come. He was anxious to be away, back to warm arms and enchanted eyes, the urge beginning to override his discretion regarding anything else.

"Safe away." Jack winced again. _Bloody hell, this was painful!_ "If anything untoward should happen… I'm asking to you keep her safe."

Will sat back, nodding interestedly, that simple motion declaring Jack's request to be both reasonable and acceptable. "Death is a far higher power, Jack. There's a reason for every person, and every time. I can't just reverse it."

"Just… if anything… untoward were to happen… couldn't you just… bend it, just that bit?"

"Not everything goes your way, Jack. I don't know, Jack. I'll try, but I can't promise." Will's pledge seemed in earnest, but his lack of conviction wasn't reassuring; Jack had hoped for something far more definitive.

Trust. That was the issue. Jack was being forced to trust someone that he had discovered was quite the opposite. He looked up at Will's wide-eyed, solemn gaze. The earnest idealism of youth was gone; he was wiser now, but not hardened. Jack could see some of Bootstraps' influence as well: the calm understanding of the world around him, and a blunt assessment of what must be done.

A fallback option was in order; a plan was only as good as its alternative, and he prided himself on never being caught without either. He had spent many a sleepless hour thinking about it, and each time only one answer arose, one solution to all his fears.

Rising abruptly, Jack fetched the bottle and filled his glass, quaffing nearly half. "Very well, if it comes to pass that you can't do that…"

Jack nearly choked, the next words refusing to pass through his lips. The place was like being in a bloody confessional, compelling him to attest to things that he barely could acknowledge to himself, let alone to someone the likes of Turner. His sense had always been that the ship was alive, with groping fingers, reaching to invade every crevice of his body, like coral over a rock, never to be seen again. It had to have been the effect of all the souls floating about; he could fell them, looking, pressing, buzzing like bees, circling, herding him toward some unknown gate.

"Put her in the Locker." Jack's eyes rolled closed, and he shuddered.

"What?" Will's eyes rounded, stunned. "But Jack…"

"I know, I know. More than any man walking this earth, I know!" Pacing, Jack's step quickened. "But, I would know where she was, and I could get her out. I'm living proof it can be done, mate."

Will shook his head, baffled. "Jack, that's…."

"Daft, I know. That's the word that certainly pops into one's mind first, doesn't it?"

It was a well-learned lesson that the best technique to disarm a foe was with the unexpected, and it was working now. It was difficult to tell who was more taken back, he or Will. He wasn't just blowing smoke; his option was solid and proven. The Locker would be Kate's personal Hell, but it would also be a holding ground, a place he could find her, and bring her back, if anything was ever to happen to her at sea. He blocked out the screaming voices in his head. What the bloody hell did they know, anyway?

"Just promise me she'll be there. Then I'll know where to go, and what's to be done." Jack took another drink, and saw his hand shake with the fear of being denied the last thread of hope that he had finally provided for Kate somehow, or another.

"Desperate measures, eh? She must be very special." Examining his hands in his lap, Will looked up from under his brow. "Such things won't come free."

Jack closed his eyes and sagged. Negotiations were always nasty business.

"Bring Elizabeth to me."

"She's right there!" Jack declared jabbing a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of Shipwreck Island. _What the bloody hell? Can't these two manage anything on their own? There's an entire kingdom of pirates out there, why do they have to keep dragging him into everything?_

Will tolerantly rolled his eyes. "And I'm here."

"Ten years is a bit too long?" Jack chuckled, knowingly. "And standing in a bucket o' sea water wouldn't do either, eh? A few too many complications in the technicalities?"

The vision of Jones standing in a bucket of seawater on a sand spit was fresh in both their minds, and they reluctantly smiled together.

"I'll not have me ship turned into a floating boudoir," Jack warned, knowing already that he had lost the argument. Will held all the cards, and he knew it.

Coming to the same conclusion, Will gave an easy smile. "Just bring her to me; I'll handle the rest."

Turner's brashness was more than irritating, Jack's frustration fanned by his helplessness to do aught about it. Turner wanted this as badly as Jack wanted his, an impasse to be sure.

On the other hand, there was a brightening thought: there was indeed something he could do about the situation: nothing. He would do absolutely nothing. Turner wanted his precious wife so badly, let him wait. Hell was due to freeze over some day… eventually.

Jack suppressed a shudder. He knew exactly what it felt like to have to wait to be with the one the body wants; eternity didn't begin to describe the torture. Turner's request wasn't an unreasonable one, but certainly not one that he was prepared to address.

Softening, Jack realized that it hadn't been that long ago, since he had been making much the same requests of Gibbs. If things had gone to plan—a uniquely odd event, to be sure—he would have been looking for Kate to be brought to him. He couldn't begrudge Turner's desirousness.

_I suppose it proves he's not entirely dead, some parts at any rate._

"Done." Jack threw back his head and drained his glass, setting it down emphatically on the table, a brief handshake sealing the deal. "Now get me out of here, before I wind up having to barter away me ship."

While Will escorted Jack out of the Great Cabin, back out on deck, another matter occurred to Jack, a promise that he had made. "What about someone who passed a while ago, maybe five or six years?"

Wariness flickered across Will's face, and then he shook his head. "I'd have no way of knowing."

"He was transported, might have died at sea… maybe," Jack pressed.

"There are no written records, if that's what you're getting at. Perhaps, if there was something remarkable enough about him for one of the crew to remember him, but other than that…"

"Tall bloke. Red-haired. A Scot." Jack angled his head toward Thomas and Bootstrap a short distance away, roosted on two barrel tops, their faces aglow in the lantern light, hunched together drinking. "He took after him over there."

Jack's only response was a helpless shake of Will's head. Not dismissive or off-handed; he seemed sincerely interested and willing to help, had there been anything to be done.

"Aye, well. It was a long shot." Jack wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved. He could at least look Kate in the eye and say that he had tried. Finding Brian on the _Flying Dutchman_ wouldn't have been easy news to deliver. However, that small bit of knowledge could have proven ever so liberating.

"Thank you, Jack." Will was sincere in that, as he extended his hand. "I feel much better."

Will did seem more relaxed, his smile coming easier, a bit of spring in his step. What man wouldn't be eased by the knowledge of his lady was being cared for? Treasures being treasured, to be sure. It was a commonality they reluctantly shared, the protection of their most precious in the hands of another.

_Bloody hell!_

"No more than I," Jack agreed, with a considerable less level of enthusiasm.

Bootstrap looked up from his conversation with Thomas at Jack's approach. He was now looking much his usual self, with the same droop eyes and ironic twist of the mouth that Jack had known for so many years.

"You look like hell, Jack." It wasn't the greeting Jack might have hoped for, but it wasn't unlike Bill. Truth be told, he felt like hell, too. It would have been nice to have been able to blame it on the whiskey that laid like a ball of lava in his stomach, but that would have been far from the truth.

"Always nice to meet an admirer. You're looking more… your… self," ended Jack lamely, with a flourish of fingers.

Bill held out his hand and slowly turned it, scrutinizing it as if it belonged to someone else. "Never thought I'd see the day. Can't say I'm sorry to see Jones meet his end. We all owe you a debt."

For a moment, Jack reveled in the reunion he never thought possible: the three of them together again, as it had been so many times before. A longtime shipmate and friend, Bootstrap had been there when Jack and Thomas had gone pirate. Since then, their courses had taken them to the four winds, crisscrossing paths on the odd occasion. Jack resisted the temptation to close his eyes and pretend it had all been a bad dream, going back to when it was the three of them, together again on the _Wench_, footloose and the world at their beckon. Now, they were together on the deck of the _Flying Dutchman_. Not necessarily a place that any of them would have forecast, but no one was to argue.

"Thank your son—and his beloved betrothed." Jack wasn't sure how much Bill had been told, and he wasn't inclined to go into it all now. Peace was what he sought now, and it certainly wasn't going to be found on the deck of the Grim Reaper of the Deep, among a bunch of hairy-faced men.

"Can't fault him there. She's a beauty," Bill added with genuine envy.

"All in the eye of the beholder, to be sure," mumbled Jack, looking away.

Bill scowled, lifting his cup, and then lowered it. "Never knew you to be so particular when it came to the ladies."

Jack shifted on his feet; bearing up under Bill's stare was never an easy matter. "The standard has changed, that's all."

Bill gave Jack a long look, a smile slowly growing. "God's nightshirt! You're smitten! Thomas here told me ye'd gotten yerself a woman, but I didn't believe it!"

Jack flinched, shooting Thomas a dark look. "Thomas has a big mouth."

"Ha-ha!" Bootstrap chortled, rocking gleefully. He clapped Jack on the shoulder so hard it nearly tumbled him over. "Then 'tis true! I thought you were lookin' like a moon-struck calf! Heaven help ye!"

"It's not quite like…." Jack scrambled to explain.

"The hell it isn't." Bill gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head, the lamplight catching the mirth-laden glint in his eyes. "Never thought I'd live to see the day!"

"You didn't," Jack pointed out, without delicacy.

"Aye, true enough," Bill sputtered agreeably. He snatched up the bottle and shoved it against Jack's chest. "Here, have a drink. You're gonna need it. Once a woman gets her claws in yer gut…"

"She's not like that."

Bill grinned the edge of his cup. "Ha! Give 'er time." He thoughtfully rolled his next drink in his mouth, dramatically squinting one eye. Bill always had been one for a bit of show.

"They go along fine. Then, one day, they start seein' houses, n' gardens, n' family… and then there'll be no peace, until you git it for 'er. Aye, but then ye lie w' 'er," he said, with a dreamy roll of the eyes, "and you'll promise the moon. Spellcasters they are."

"This one's… different," Jack ruffled.

"So was my Cora… at first. And then, somethin' came over 'er—nesting." He shuddered, taking another drink.

"Jack' s right, Bill," Thomas finally chimed in to Jack's relief. "This one's not like that."

Bill darted a sharp-eyed look between Jack and Thomas. "Oh-oh! I smell trouble. I thought you two were done chasin' the same woman. Truth be told, after the last one, I never expected to see you two in the same company again."

"It's not like that." Thomas glanced at Jack. "She's made her choice."

Jack's eyes met Thomas', reaffirming their tacit agreement. For now, Kate had made her choice, and Thomas was willing to concede to it. But, if minds were to change, or if differences or the vagaries of life pushed them in separate ways, Thomas would be there without hesitation, picking up where Jack left off.

"Well, we know judgment's not on her side." He gave a lewd wink, elbowing Thomas in the ribs. "Not just after Ol' Jack's money, is she?"

Neither Thomas or Jack laughed.

"Well, then go with God," Bill cackled. Clapping Jack on the shoulder, he hoisted the bottle in a salute. "'Cuz you're gonna need all the help you can get."


	41. Chapter 41: A Meeting of the Minds

**Chapter Forty-one: A Meeting of the Minds**

**Thomas** looked up at the sight of Elizabeth determinedly striding down the dock, and outwardly groaned.

Ships had been making way, leaving Shipwreck Cove to their sterns for the last two days. The celebration coming to a close and their pockets bare, the pirates were setting off, in search of whatever means Fate might chose to refill their coffers. As space became available, the _Griselle,_ like other outlaying vessels, had been moved in to allow for easier provisioning up. His ship now sat at the opposite end of Shipwreck's curving wharf from the _Black Pearl._

He tiredly rubbed his face. It was teetering on early morning; he had been hoping for at least a few hours sleep before daybreak, but those dreams were fading. He peered over the rail, hoping that Elizabeth might just be passing, on her way somewhere, anywhere but his ship. He was content for her to be Jack's problem, but those had a way of rolling downhill.

His hopes were dashed when she sheared off toward the _Griselle's_ gangplank.

"Boarder, Cap'n?" called the night watch.

"Aye, so I see," he sighed, resigned. "Allow her to pass." _Bloody hell! What in all that's mother and earth does she want?_

He already had his suspicions, but reserved final judgment as he bent to hand her up from the gangplank.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said, breathless from the steep climb, and then produced a large bottle as further introduction.

He had to admire her directness; no mincing about, just straight to the point.

"I would hesitate to suggest anything else, Your Lordship," Thomas said, sketching a mocking bow. "To do so, would be to question your honor, and I'm very sure that would be above reproach, am I not correct?"

She stiffened at the slur.

"Would you trust my company sufficiently to accompany me to my cabin… alone?" He punctuated the suggestion with one of his best leers, using his height to further intimidate.

Obliged to tip her head back in order to see his face, Elizabeth's throat visibly moved when she gulped. "Of course." She tried to hold a steady look, but ultimately her eyes fell away.

Thomas took her by the elbow and guided her toward his cabin, hissing over her shoulder, "Shouldn't trust strangers so readily. It could get you into a lot of trouble."

"You're no stranger." She carried herself with the same confident poise as if she were hosting tea in her father's parlor. "You're a friend of Jack's."

He genuinely laughed at that. "Barely a reference, to be sure!"

Elizabeth straightened, turning to give him the same look she might have given a recalcitrant servant. "You're a pirate, and as such, you are obligated…"

"To do anything I damn well please," he finished testily as they drew up to the table. "And if you'll pause to take a look around, you'll find you're on my ship, just now. So, would you still care to sit, or are both of us going to have to stand the duration of this interview?"

Shooting him a glare, Elizabeth shoved the bottle into his hand and found a seat.

"Ah, you've come bearing gifts. What gentleman could refuse that?" He held up the bottle in display and uncorked it, sniffing appreciatively. "And a very good brand of rum, indeed! You've come to impress someone, haven't you?"

"Two glasses, if you please." There was no mistaking the challenge in that request.

Thomas fetched two stemmed crystal glasses, and did the honor of pouring. The rum in fact, was very good, of a quality fit only for Teague's private stock, which led one to several questions, all of which put Elizabeth's presence under the highest of suspicions.

As Elizabeth launched into a self-propelled dialogue, Thomas experimentally closed his eyes. The sound of her voice had haunted him since their meeting at the tavern a few days earlier. He smiled faintly. It was true! She did sound like one of his sisters, the youngest one. It had been a long time since he had been in the face of so much female chatter, jumping from topic to topic like a Bombay bomber on a griddle. He saved himself the effort of trying to follow along. No man could keep up. Following along meant trying to find a logic in the transition from one subject to another, and no man could ever achieve that.

He scrutinized Elizabeth as she eagerly refilled his glass—just a little too eagerly, by his estimation; it had barely touched the table—jabbering about heaven knew what. He chuckled privately. She was an intriguing character. He wondered how Jack ever got himself tangled up with the Princess of Port Royal. Although, come to think on it: the Governor's daughter? Why not?

A woman with a mission could be a fascinating thing. Unlike many men, he had never seen a woman in a position of power as a threat. In point of fact, he often found it an appealing trait, but only if she possessed the graces to wield said power with a certain amount of cunning. Elizabeth was too new, all ambition with no discretion, brandishing her position like it was the sword at her side. Given time to learn—at Teague's knee, no doubt—and she could grow to be a very credible foe.

He nodded and smiled at the appropriate pauses, and waited for the moment when she would finally give up the charade and get around to the true purpose of this visit. Getting him drunk was obviously an integral part of it. As for the rest, he was willing to bet every coin in his pocket that it had something to do with Jack.

Finally, she paused, giving his glass an accusing look. "You're not drinking."

It took Thomas a moment to realize that he had been addressed directly and stir from his reverie. "I didn't know this was a contest."

Studying him closely, she frowned, her brows nearly touching. "You don't seem like the rest. You're not…" Her mouth moved soundlessly, groping for words.

"Vile? Dastardly? Disgusting?" He laughed, teasing. "Stop me when I finally get it right. Believe me, you just happened to catch me on one of my better days."

"What do you think of Barbossa?"

"All right sort," Thomas mused, choosing to bide his time and ride along with the sudden veer in her course, "as long as you don't turn your back, or trust him to do anything less than what serves his own purposes."

"And Chevalle?"

"Pretty much the same cut o' the sail. He'd rather shoot you in the back, than have to meet you face to face."

"And Jocard?" she asked, idly toying with a set of dividers lying on the table.

"I know of two people he killed right in the middle of a parlay, just because he didn't like the color of their shirt." Thomas' good nature clouded, the end of his patience suddenly found. "Look, why don't we stop the Brethren roll call, and just get around to what you came for? Two days ago, you couldn't give me the courtesy of a nod. Now all of a sudden, you're wanting to share your very good rum, in the hopes that I might share my innermost thoughts?"

He propped his boots up on the table and gestured with his glass. "Well, let's have it."

Batting her lashes, Elizabeth made a skillful attempt at innocence. "Have what? I can't imagine what…"

Thomas' outburst of laughter stopped her in mid-sentence. "You'll have to be a better liar than that, Missy!"

Elizabeth started to argue, then realizing the folly in that, surrendered. Dropping her eyes, she fumbled about, fingering everything within reach on the table.

"Did Jack tell you… anything?"

Dawn had broken the day before, while he and Jack had sailed from the _Flying Dutchman_ back to the Cove. Jack had been particularly restive, vacillating wildly from elation to circumspection, but was uniquely talkative about things he wouldn't ordinarily have been willing to discuss. In the morning's quiet, he related to Thomas the stunning story. Her Royalness had no idea how lucky it was that she hadn't been within reach, because his first urge had been to wring her neck. As it was, by now he had calmed down, and saw the fallacy in that. Still, if she were to push him, he couldn't vouch for what might happen.

"I know enough," he announced, crossing his arms. "You murdered him, no differently that if you had thrown him to the sharks. My hat's off to you, Your Highness; you're a better man than I am. I could never leave a man, without a way of defending himself. Even a marooned man is left with a pistol."

"He had a pistol."

His easy manner gave way to a cold look. "That's not the point, and you know it. Be glad he found a way back. I'd be obliged to kill you otherwise."

Elizabeth's face was strained, as if she had never considered the possibility that Jack might have someone who would care enough to avenge his death.

"I had to do it. I had to save everyone else." She balled a fist, softly thumping the table in emphasis to each word. "There was no other way."

"Really? And so, pray tell, what kept Jack from yelling?"

Her face fell, her confidence draining. "What?"

"Why didn't Jack yell?" Thomas repeated with taunting patience. "You left him shackled, but he could have still yelled for help, _if_ he had wanted to be saved. Surely in all your self-congradulatories on your noble sacrifices, you thought of that small detail."

"That bastard!" Her mouth rounded, her face reddening. "All this time, he let me suffer, thinking that…."

"You suffered!" He made a rude noise. "Since when are you the victim, here? Jack's the one you fed to the kraken, like he was slops to a pig!"

"It wasn't like that... not really... not quite..."

"So, if I put you out there and tie you to a post and waited for the tide to come in, just to see how long you could hold your breath; that would be the same, then eh? Not really killing you... not quite." Thomas didn't try to hide his contempt.

Cornered, her options exhausted, she flared, with a pugnacious set to her jaw. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Really?" He peered sideways through the aft gallery toward the night sky. "I figure dawn is what, another two hours away, maybe less?" He swiveled a measuring eye toward her. "And how have you been sleeping lately? I'm not the one who came halfway across town—at night—looking…"

"You're awake."

Thomas shifted, clearing his throat. "I've been... occupied."

"How much did she cost?" Now she was the one to make her contempt apparent.

"Double, because of so many men in town, but it was money well spent." He would have paid triple, and still considered it money overdue and well-spent. It had been a long time since he had bedded a woman, a very long time.

"Whores aren't what you came here to talk about. Don't expect Jack to salve your guilt."

"I'm not guilty!"

Thomas gave a derisive snort. "Really? Then why are you so desperate for his forgiveness? Again, hat's off." He bowed from his seat, lifting his hat a fraction from his head. "You're to be commended; not many could get Jack to trust them enough to be able to betray him."

"Jack's a good man."

"Bloody hell!" Thomas dropped his head in his hands and moaned. Crueler words were never spoken, especially for Jack; no one appreciated having their greatest weakness flagged before them, only to have it later used against them. He peeked up through his fingers. "You didn't tell him that did you?"

"Certainly. Why not?"

Thomas took a drink, regarding her over the rim of his glass. "You are a cold piece of goods. You don't mind sticking the blade in a man's gut and giving it a twist, do you?"

Regaining her composure, Elizabeth crossed her arm. "I have a feeling that you're a good man, too." The cold calculation in that statement precluded any suggestion of flattery.

"Ha! Not nearly so much as Jack, so pull your horns in, Missy." Be damned if he was going to be led into an examination of his own morality.

"Stop calling me that," she huffed, her face flushing.

"What would you prefer? Your Lordship? Your Murderess? Don't go putting on those airs around here, Missy. And don't go jutting that chin, either," he added, wagging a scolding finger. "You can forget all those feminine ploys; they aren't going to work here."

Her eyes bulged with indignation, but she heeded his advice, and clamped her lower lip between her teeth. Pointedly avoiding looking at him, she snatched at her glass and drained it, holding it out for it to be filled. "I've asked for him to stay." The nearly whispered admission came not without a struggle.

Thomas lifted an interested brow as he poured. "Have you now? I can probably guess what his answer was."

A jerk of the head was her concession that he had guessed accurately.

_So that was it_. He glanced at the bottle in his hand; it had taken nearly half a bottle of rum, for her to finally get to the point of her mission: use him and his friendship to get to Jack.

It took her several sips in rapid succession, before she said anything further, hazarding a cautious look from the corner of her eyes that were increasingly unfocused. "How do I get through to him?"

"You don't."

It wasn't the answer she had expected, and her face fell, the furrows between her heavy brows deepening.

"Ho-ho!" Thomas sputtered, laughing. "You thought you were going to use your feminine wiles and land Jack." He wiped his eyes, still spewing mirth. "Oh, God, You _are_ fresh! I knew you were young, but..." He clucked his tongue, scolding. "You need to hone those skills, Missy. Jack's a sure bet for anyone in a skirt; all it takes most times is a pair of eyes, and a bit of mystery. You must have really done something woefully wrong to put him off."

Beneath his chortling, Thomas winced. He'd gotten the answer that he had wanted, but not the one he had hoped to hear. It was a very rare occurrence for Jack to ignore a woman's advances, but then he was always one for surprises. A dalliance on Jack's part could have been the opening—small, but an opportunity nonetheless—that Thomas had hoped for. Kate was tolerant, but he would wager not when it came to that. But from all evidence, Jack had resisted. It was a remarkable testimonial to only one person: Kate.

"Believe me! Get in line! A lot better women... girls," he corrected quickly after a quick glance her way, "have tried to push him, and have categorically failed." _Except for one, _he thought, to his amazement and her merit.

"I don't have the faintest idea what you mean," said Elizabeth, primly rolling her eyes. It would seem his analysis had been painfully accurate. Jerking her shoulders, her face reddened further as he continued to chuckle. "Stop being absurd!"

"Lesson One, M'lady," Thomas gasped, struggling to regain his composure. "You'd better get Ol' Teague to teach you how to lie better."

Unsettled, Elizabeth fell into a thoughtful silence, tracing the wood grain patterns with her finger, while Thomas watched and waited, curious to see what her next tack was going to be. As she reached for her drink, her hand strayed, requiring her to make a more determined try at seizing the glass's stem.

"Does Jack have someone already?" she asked, quaffing the contents.

"Why?" Thomas peeled a look as he half-rose to reach across the table and refill it. "You figure that's the only reason he could resist your charms?"

Elizabeth shifted in her seat, her hands alternating between working in her lap and fiddling with every object on the table within her reach. Finally, she drew a deep breath, gathering the courage for something she found distasteful.

"Please... Thomas... is there...? You're his friend; make him stay. I don't know what to do; I need help."

So it was to be the helpless victim, now, he thought as he sat back. She did possess a full arsenal, and was a fair actress_._ It was an interesting commentary that she would be so reliant upon the very person that she had killed.

"I couldn't agree with you more. You're going to be in desperate need of help, but Jack, nor I," he added pointedly, "are going to be the ones. No one makes Jack do anything he doesn't want to do. Forcing Jack is like trying to push a wet rope; you're never going to get far."

Elizabeth boldly met his gaze. "Perhaps I could make it worth your while."

Thomas stiffened, his mood darkening. "Don't try me, Missy."

"I just thought..."

"'Thought' my arse," he growled, and she shrunk back under his glare. "You thought you could manipulate me like you do your precious court? Your father? Everyone else in your little world? I'll not betray Jack, rest on that. Never have, and never will."

"Jack claims everyone has a price."

"Sounds like Jack," he nodded agreeably, cooling further. "But sounds even more like Teague."

Rolling up his sleeve, he plunked his arm on the table and extended it to expose the puckered and gnarled skin of his forearm. "Do you have any idea what it's like, to have wood strips shoved under your skin, and then set afire?" He smiled in satisfaction at her sickened look. "They were trying to make me betray him then... didn't work," he added with a confirming jerk of his head.

"Jack has the same scars," she said faintly. Turning an unsightly color, she snatched for her glass, and drained it.

"Aye, they were trying just as hard to get him to betray me." He sat back and rolled his sleeve back down. The sight of it still sickened him; his own screams had been bearable that night, but Jack's…

He shook his head, washing away the memories with rum. "Betrayal is like a wounded boar: you never know when one of those tusks is going to come around and gore you. You're barking up the wrong mast. Change subjects, Your Royalness, because I've already told you everything I intend to say."

**Daylight** was but an hour old, when Jack was striding purposefully up Shipwreck's wharf, his sights set on the bright blue-hulled ship that sat at the far end, half-obscured by the other ships in the harbor. The dock life was just beginning to stir, making it easy to see ahead at the unusual form that was coming toward him.

Puzzled, his step slowed, ultimately scuffing to a halt. He stood gaping as Thomas neared, a lifeless shape slung over one shoulder. As Thomas drew up before him, Jack eyeballed the body, draped with the same causal as if it had been a sea bag, the rear end proving to be quite familiar.

"Her Nibs?" Jack's voice broke with disbelief. "Dead or drunk?" He couldn't help but sound a little hopeful on the first, although took a certain glee from the latter.

Thomas squinted as he concentrated on an answer, swaying as he shifted her weight. "Not dead."

Jack circled behind and delicately sniffed. "Rum!" He nodded approvingly. "You did that to her… alone?" Jack had never thought it possible, but there was the undeniable evidence, staring him in the face… the rear of it, at any rate. "Chapeau, mate. You're a better man than I."

"Not sayin' there weren't a few wounds inflicted along the way." Only sheer determination was holding Thomas upright, his bloodshot eyes and struggle to focus his eyes on Jack said the rest.

"Take her to Teague," Jack said, straining to keep a straight face. "He'll know what to do with her."

"Somehow, I can't see him making her drink whiskey and smoke cigars," Thomas said with a sophomoric grin.

Jack cringed at the reference to his own childhood, when Teague had found him drunk at age eleven, and forced him to drink an entire bottle of whiskey, while smoking a markedly rank cigar.

"Still can abide the stench of a cigar, _nor_ the taste of whiskey." Jack shuddered away the recollection, choosing to address his original purposes. "Don't look for me tomorrow."

Their eyes met, and Thomas nodded, understanding completely that the inevitable time had come. "Three days already? The _Pearl's_ fit?"

"Fit enough. There's still hull work to be done, rigging to set, and sails to bend, but we can do that at sea as easily as sitting at this wretched wharf."

Every shred of rag aboard the _Pearl_ had been used to patch her sails—Hopefully, the _Empress,_ or Jocard's _Ranger_ won't notice the stolen canvas, until the _Pearl_ was well away—He didn't bother to mention planking to be seamed, or gaping holes to be sealed. The spin-yarns were being wound as fast as humanly possible, the new rope flying faster than web from a spider's ass; they would need every foot to replace the lost rigging. Yards had been jury-rigged, and both bilge pumps were in full operation. That bastard Barbossa had a nose like a hound when it came to a ship making ready to sail, and had encamped his backside squarely where it was no longer wanted.

"Three of Chevalle's carpenters volunteered to come join me crew." Privately, Jack had to admit, that work would progress much more quickly, once he could unlock them from the brig.

"Then you'd best be away, or Chevalle will have your head on a spike. The Court convenes tomorrow." It was apparent by his tone, that Thomas knew it was a needless reminder.

"Tell them to start without me," Jack said, without the least hesitation, or regret. "You know how it works; you can be me proxy. I've had all of this place I can bear."

Just when he had planned for all his plans to be complete, the necessity for another had been foisted upon him.

Turner had made demands, and Jack had agreed, but only so far as to his own gains. By all that was holy, he wasn't about to sit idly by in the face of Turner's threats. If the captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ couldn't afford Kate the protection he sought, then there was another answer, emblazoned on Barbossa's wretched ancient chart. Ponce de Leon had found it, and now he would, too, but only if Kate were to be the benefactor. For himself, he had already made his choice: eternity was hardly a reward, if he had to watch her grow old and fail. But, if she were to consent, if they could both…

_Ah! Now there was a plan!_

Jack fell quiet for a moment, absent-mindedly rubbing his chest. He couldn't explain the growing pull in his gut to which no ease could be found, except at the thought of being away, heading across the open seas. There was no need for charts, bearings, or courses; like an albatross to land, he knew the way.

He looked up, and shrugged, raising his arms in dismay. "I don't know what it is. I'm drawn, and I can't resist… I have to... go," he ended lamely, at a loss as to how else to explain it.

Thomas chuckled, arching a knowing brow. "I think we all know what that is; all it takes is a good whore."

"No, it isn't like that," Jack said, smiling faintly, tugging at the front of his breeches. _God, if it were only that easy!_ "This is something… different."

"I think we all know what that is, too."

Thomas sighed, resigned. "Seems too soon. Tell 'er 'Hello' for me?" he asked hopefully.

Jack gave a genuine smile. "You know I will." He hesitated. Considering all that had passed between the two of them over the years, he was oddly at a loss for words. "If ever… anything were to happen…?"

"You know I will. She knows it; I told her as much, the last time I saw her."

"I figured as much." Jack was markedly relieved.

Their urge was to hug, but Elizabeth draped over Thomas' shoulder prevented them from that, so a shake of the hand and a slap on the shoulder had to suffice.

"On the next horizon?"

"On the next horizon."

** "Take what you can; give nothing back!"**

**Still** seriously injured, the _Black Pearl _had limped all the way from Shipwreck; Tortuga had been a fortuitous stop. Lacking supplies and sufficient crew, they had needed a port, and the town had been in the right place at the right time. Who was he to argue with that?

Jack's gut took a sickening plummet as he stood on the dock, and watched the black dot of her recede on the horizon.

_Not again! Not now!_

In a near panic, he grabbed the first vessel in his sight, and set off in hot pursuit—well, as hot as a dinghy could manage. But in every disadvantage there was an advantage: the _Pearl_ could barely manage a crawl.

Besides, he knew exactly where that bastard Barbossa would be heading. The poor sod actually thought that scrawling on the chart pointed the way. It did… but only if one knew what he was looking at.

It was just a matter of time.


	42. Chapter 42: Homecoming

**Chapter Forty-two: Homecoming**

"Ready about!"

Jack stood on the quarterdeck while his crew scrambled to their stations, watching the approaching point of land that marked the entrance to Sint Maarten's harbor, measuring both distance and the _Pearl's_ speed.

The winds had been on the _Black Pearl's _nose, opposing her path to Sint Maarten for nearly a week, forcing the long arduous tacks. He took it personal. So anxious he was to return to the town and Kate, he considered anything a hindrance and took exception. Misjudge this next turn, and it would mean another long tack, and several more hours before they made port.

Jack didn't care to wait that long.

"Look alive on that cross-jack brace!" he bellowed.

Standing amidships, Gibbs turned to give the laggardly hand a withering glare. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been Gibbs' responsibility to manage the crew in such minor detail, but these weren't ordinary times. Jack was anxious to make port; Gibbs understood that, and took no exception to the additional supervision.

"Ease down the helm, Mr. Cotton," Jack murmured to the man at his elbow, and then shouted, "Helm's a-lee!" with enough volume for even the furthest reaches of the ship to hear.

It was a new crew. Most had signed on at Shipwreck Cove; the remainder during their stop in Tortuga. It had only been a month, but Gibbs knew how to whip a rabble into a handy crew better than any First Mate he had ever witnessed. Still, they were a rough lot, and bore watching. The sheets were let go, the fores and courses shaking as their load was released.

"Raise the tacks and sheets!"

It was an interminable wait as he kept a sharp eye on the _Pearl's_ head, watching for that moment when the wind finally crossed her bow.

_It's toying with me,_ he thought crossly as the wind fluked, first one way, then another, only fractions of a compass point, but enough to stall the ship. He had never begrudged Mother Nature's her capricious ways, but he was beginning to take it personal. Turn too soon, and the wind would be on their nose, the _Pearl_ dying in the water, losing the precious momentum. Turn too late, and they would be too far off their mark. That would mean another long tack and many more hours, in order to gain the necessary angle to clear the point and make the harbor.

"Right the helm."

Cotton nodded, understanding the delicate balance being asked of him. It meant feeling for the rudder, maintaining the pressure in anticipation of the turn that wasn't to be made yet.

Jack felt rather than saw the fore sails starving the aft sails; that was the cue he had been waiting for. "Mainsail haul! Shift the jibs, Mr. Gibbs. Get that spanker up sharp!" he shouted at a loafer behind him.

As if the wind knew it had been bested, it steadied exactly where the _Pearl_ needed, a few points off her bow, and the after sail caught.

"Let go and haul!"

"Round those brace heads. Briskly, you spawn o' the devil!" Gibbs roared, stalking the deck. "Look lively, ladies!"

As if the _Pearl_ sensed her captain's urgency, she came about smartly, eagerly settling into her new course, the water at her breast boiling. To anxious to stay put, Jack trundled down the gangway and drew up at the rail. Gibbs came up next to him, they and the entire crew watching anxiously to see if the _Pearl_ had made her final turn.

She had.

"She's easier under a lofty sail," Jack said thinking aloud, when the _Pearl_ finally rounded the point. Gibbs didn't need to be told; besides himself, no one knew the _Pearl_ better. "We'll come in on the jibs and gallants."

Nodding, Gibbs turned to relay the orders, only to be interrupted. "We'll set a flying moor," Jack called.

The First Mate stopped at that, looking questioningly over his shoulder. Ordinarily, the anchor would be set, the rode fed out, and then the second anchor would be dropped, suspending the ship between the two. Instead, both anchors would have to be simultaneously made ready, one to be dropped as the _Pearl_ passed the first point, the next one to be dropped when her momentum died. It would require double the preparation and effort on the crew, but nearly half the time.

The corner of Gibbs' mouth tucked up in a wry smile. Jerking a nod, he set off to make ready.

Stopping on the forecastle, Jack ignored Fort Orange roosted on the headlands, his attention on the town nestled in the far corner of the harbor. Recent nights had been a tribulation. Visions of Kate's naked body, yielding to his hands, her eyes bright with need, taunted him every time he closed his eyes. Consequently, he took every watch, forcing his eyes to stay open. It was just as well; he didn't trust anyone else to be able to coax as much speed from the _Pearl_ as he could. He understood his ship, and she responded eagerly to his touch. Just as Kate responded to his touch, rising to him, yearning....

He slapped himself in the leg, hoping a sharp bit of pain might break his thoughts. Adjusting his goods, he cast a hopeful eye skyward. Usually, the air would freshen about this time of day. He needed to get to Kate—soon!

Until recently, he hadn't considered the possibility—albeit remote, to his way of thinking—that Kate might be a bit peevish about being left. With that thought, he cautioned himself to have a care; she had a mean punch, when provoked.

_Surely, not! _Given all the time since he had left, surely she had cooled down. Maybe… hopefully. True enough, it had been a bit longer than he had promised, but the sea was an uncertain place. It operated on a time schedule all of its own. Besides, over a year wasn't all _that_ long.

He gave a wry smile, as he tugged at the front of his breeches. Obviously, his goods thought differently.

"Orders, Cap'n?"

The _Pearl_ had barely settled on her anchors, before the longboat was swung away, Jack paused with one foot over the gunwale, annoyed by the delay.

"You know what's to be done, Mr. Gibbs. On your command," he said, and then clambered down the accommodation ladder to the awaiting longboat.

Jack stood at the boat's bow as it nosed its way around the other ships lying at anchor, anxiously tapping his fingers on his belts. He didn't wait for the bow to bump the dock before he leapt off, already several strides away by the time its painter was secured. With single-minded determination, he dove through the crowded wharf traffic, ducking handcarts and drays, judiciously dodging around the oxen and horse teams. The _La Sirène Vierge_ Tavern was but a short jog up the street. He burst through the door, giving only the briefest of nods to the proprietor at the counter as he passed, and took the stairs two at a time.

"You looking for her?"

Jack stopped in mid-stride on the steps, swiveling to give the keep a questioning look. He recalled the man's hawk-like face, but couldn't place a name at the moment.

"She's not up there," the keeper informed him, tersely. Brace and bit in hand, he was busy tapping a keg.

Reversing his path, Jack came back down the stairs, frowning.

"Where is she?" Jack asked, rounding the counter. In his worst moments, he had refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that Kate wouldn't be waiting.

Intent on his task, the keep shrugged indifferently. "Don't know. She left."

"Left where?" Jack's heart hammered, growing testier by the second. He wasn't of a mind to play silly questions; apparently he had left his sense of humor on board. "Left for a walk? Left for the day?"

"Don't know. She left, shortly after you left."

"Where did she go?" _Gicquel! That was the bastard's name._

Gicquel finally looked up, with an insufferably blank—maybe even a bit taunting—expression. "Like I said, not sure."

Lunging across the counter, Jack seized him by the shirtfront, and yanked him across the counter, his tools clattering to the floor. "Where did she go?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"I don't know!" Gicquel stammered, flailing in protest. "I thought I saw her coming out of Marguerite's a few times, but I'm not sure."

"You mean that new one at Marguerite's?"

Jack released his grip, allowing Gicquel to crumple backwards over the bar. He swiveled around on the patron hunched over a table.

"What do you mean 'new one'?" he demanded.

The man was typical. Wharf rat, dock dregs or just plain rumpot, he could have seen in a thousand different taverns or alehouses. Snag-toothed and remarkably odious smelling, even from Jack's distance, he bore a salacious grin.

"Have to wait in line for that one!"

"I heard it's worth the wait," chimed in another from further across the room, even more beggarly and hoggish than the first.

Jack grimaced. _Has every dreg of mankind come to die here?_

"Ohh, aye!!" Nearly-Toothless agreed heartily, his eyes going large. "She is well worth the wait _and_ the extra charge."

Rattled, Jack glanced out the tavern's window, across the sun-glared street toward the bright yellow house, its red shutters gleaming in the afternoon light.

"That's Marguerite's!" he exclaimed, pointing a rigid arm. "It's a whorehouse!"

"One of the best in these waters," boasted Gicquel from behind the bar, having righted himself from the floor.

Jack threw a dagger-like glare over his shoulder. No one needed to tell him that; he was more than familiar with the house, more than he cared to admit. He glowered at Gicquel. Several voices in his head told him to dispatch the bastard right there on the spot, but he wasn't of a mind to take that bit of time just then.

Jack's eye caught sight of a table near the window; he and Kate had sat there. She had eaten her meal and his—the one he couldn't finish; his stomach was so tied in knots with the knowing that it was to be their last. He could see her there now, those blue-green eyes bright with more than just the candlelight.

"No, no, no! I'm looking for a woman, tall, near up to here." He held a hand approximately at his brow. "With dark copper hair... all tangly, most likely."

The two goatish sots nodded in unified agreement.

"Sounds like her! Ask for..." Near-Toothless pressed a finger to his jaw, rolling his eyes as he struggled for a name. "Carmen? Christina? Katarina? Something like that."

"Just ask for the new one," put in the other. "And be prepared to wait."

Jack recoiled at the image of what manner of woman would lift her skirts for either one of them—Money was indeed a powerful enticement—and considered knocking those smiles off the ruttish lechers.

_But I left her money!_

_That was over a year ago, you dolt! She had to live somehow._

_But not… that!!_

Jack touched his fingertips to his reeling head, trying to assimilate what he was hearing. "But, I left her here!"

"Now she's over there… and she left owing me money!" Gicquel called, Jack already speeding out the door.

Muttering blackly, Jack scurried across the street, unmindful of the protests of bystanders that he roughly brushed aside, and the alarmed squeal of a carriage horse that he cut in front of. This was turning into a very bad dream. It was quickly shaping into categorically into one of the worst days of his life. Never in the last year's bleakest moments—and there were many, to be sure—had he envisioned this nightmare.

_Bloody woman!_

He burst through red doors that he had been through more times than he cared to think. At one point, he ruefully thought, he had actually fancied that he would never come through them again. Life took some cruel twists.

Alerted by the force of Jack's entry, the doorman quickly imposed his body between Jack and the all too familiar hallway. Jack rolled his eyes up at Marguerite's ever-present strong-arm, Gaubert, glowering down at him, and he inwardly groaned. Their last meeting had been less than cordial.

"Oh, you're still here." _Not good._

Jack tried to shove past the watch dog, only to be blocked again. Exasperated, he rocked back, and propped his hands on his hips. "Look, I'd love to dance about, and have a gay ol' chat—we can pick up where we left off the last time—but I…"

"Gaubert!" called a familiar woman's voice. "Who is… ?"

The click of heels on the wooden floors and the voice of his mistress drew the ouster's attention, and he obediently stepped to allow Jack to come into her view.

"Jack Sparrow!" she exclaimed, delighted.

"Marguerite!" Niceties were the last thing on Jack's mind, but it was his experience that, when at all possible, one should never aggravate the house's madam, and he put on his most charming show.

Marguerite gave him one of those smiles that went a long way in explaining how she had managed to become the _grande damme_ of her own palace, proof that her success hadn't just been blind luck. Beauty comes in many forms, and there was a lot to be said for one that had aged so gracefully. Behind those grey eyes was a host of knowledge in the matter of what it took to put a smile on a man's face.

He could only hope that she knew how to do so then.

"Haven't seen you in a long time!" She gave Jack an exuberant hug, her hand lingering on the curve of his arse. She gave him an emphatic squeeze there, her hips familiarly nudged his. "Been keeping yourself scarce? I thought I heard you were dead."

"Me death has been greatly exaggerated," was Jack's distracted reply as he scanned the hall. "I'm looking for someone."

"Yes, I supposed you would be," she said, with a wise lilt. "We're always pleased to have one of our best customers back. Would you like... ?"

"Jack!" A petite brunette, in a brightly flowered wrapper, rounded the parlor doorway. "Look, girls," she called into the room behind her. "It's Jack Sparrow!"

With the clatter of slippers on the wood floor and feminine shrillness of delight, bringing with them an engulfing cloud of perfume and powder, a small bevy of women, in various versions of undress, poured out of the parlor, and gathered around.

"Hello, ladies! Yes, it's wonderful to see you all." He greeted each one, at the same time trying to extricate from their clutches.

"Well," called Marguerite over the din. "What will it be Jack, all or one at a time?"

"I'm looking for your newest one," he said, slithering out of a pair of snarling arms around his neck.

The madam's face fell. "Oh, dear. She's always so busy." She gave Jack a hopeful look. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of the other _jeunne filles_?"

"No! Her!" he shouted back, his voice going shrill when someone managed a fortuitous grab.

"You always did like the best," she chuckled, wrestling with an errant strand of hair that had fallen over one eye. "Well, you're lucky, because she just happens to be available. Doesn't happen that often, but it's still early. I'll warn you, she's extra."

"I'll pay," he said firmly, reaching into his pocket. Marguerite was never one to pass up the opportunity to add a bit of drama, in order to increase the price, but at the moment, the condition of his coin purse was the last of his concerns.

"Yes, I thought you might," she mused dryly, one brow rising over a sharp gray eye. "You always have been generous with your coin… except that one time."

"Yes, well, those were extenuating circumstances," he pointed out shortly, "as you well know." _Was no one ever allowed a moment of indiscretion?_

Counting the money in her palm, she angled her head toward the stairs. "Last one on the right. You know the way."

Taking the stairs two at a time, Jack pulled up sharply, when his path was blocked by another whore. _Ruby? Regina? Rachel? _He groped for a name as he hastily declined her offers, tipping his hat as he slipped past, and sped down the hall.

He skidded to a halt at the door. He drew a deep breath, and took a moment to organize his thoughts, none of which were fit for human ears. It wasn't going to be pretty, neither was it going to be flattering, but sodding hell, she drove him to it!

_Bloody damned woman!_

A dozen questions jammed his mind, all boiling down to one basic question: why? Why in the blazing hell did she feel it necessary to turn whore? From what she had told him, it was the last place he would have expected to find her. But, then again, maybe she had lied; she wouldn't be the first. Truth be told, it shouldn't come as all that great shock, either. He had anticipated the off chance that she might be irritated, but this… _this_ he judged as a bit excessive.

His traitorous body didn't care. It knew Kate was near, and was eagerly urging him forward. If she wanted to turn whore then he'd take her like one, and let her precious, delicate feelings be damned. By no means was this the homecoming he had imagined.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved the door open and burst in.

"What the b... ?"

His words died in his throat as a short, slight woman with strawberry blonde hair, rose from a stool before a dressing table.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, startled.

"Who do you want me to be?" She strolled toward him, tilting her head and batting her lashes.

Jack spun around, searching the small room. "Is there someone else here?"

"Were you wanting more than one?" A quick sift of the shoulders allowed her embroidered silk wrapper to drop away, baring both breasts. "I can assure you that I can be more than enough for any appetite," she purred huskily. Leaning closer, she jounced one heavy weight on his arm.

Swearing explosively, Jack bolted from the room and back down the hall, only to be stopped at the top of the stair.

"Jack!" she said breathily, pinning him against the wall with her hips. "I heard you were here. It's been a long time, lovey."

"Yes, it has, hasn't it?" he agreed, trying to wriggle past.

"C'mon in, darlin'," she coaxed, tugging at his shirt. "We can have a roll for old times."

"No, no!" he gasped, dodging her mouth. "I've other business..."

"I was always your favorite, do you remember?"

"Oh, yes," he said heartily. _Anna? Alice? Amelie? _"I recall very well. Look, luv," he began, faltering as she nibbled his neck. "If I were to go with you, then it wouldn't be fair to all the other girls, would it?" he argued, still battling her hands, which were so expertly finding their target. His words were cut off by her mouth, her tongue plunging down his throat.

"Enough!" Breaking her grasp, he held her at arms' distance. He drew several breaths, trying to regain not only himself, but his body, which maddeningly seemed to have its own divining rod, fully operational. "I can't now. I've other matters."

Holding up a warning finger, he narrowed one eye, and backed down the steps, until well away, then trammeled the rest of the way down the steps. Finding Marguerite in the parlor, he seized her by the shoulders and whirled her around.

"That's not the one I meant!"

Fluttering her eyes, she stammered. "You said 'the new one'."

"Well, then I guess I meant the _other_ new one!" he shouted, waving his hands.

"She's the only new one we have, Jack," Marguerite explained with infuriating calmness. "Are you sure you know who you're looking for?"

"Yes," Jack said, his last shreds of patience being consumed. "I know exactly who I am looking for, and _she's _not it! There has to be another one."

The madam pursed her lips thoughtfully. "No, she's the only new _fille_ I have. It's rather remote here; it's not easy getting new girls, let alone a good one."

He knew she was lying; the hooded looks of the women and Gaubert, standing nearby, was proof of that.

"I know she's here," he began again, lowering his voice. "And I need to find her."

His mum had often lectured him about some foolishness involving sugar and vinegar; always sounded like some recipe to him. But he did know that a smile went a long ways to get what one wanted, and he flashed one of his best. Constricted by rigid jaws and unspeakable frustration, it fell far short, Marguerite's handsome features remained unchanged.

Deflated, thinking defeat nigh, he looked away, in order to think of his next ploy—and then he saw it: Marguerite's bodice, encrusted with silk ribbon roses amid a baroque swirl of vines and smaller flowers.

"Those are her little roses!" Caught up in his glee, Jack took her by the arms and gently shook her. "Where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about…"

Wheeling around, Jack raced to the base of the stairs. "Kate!" he bellowed, eliciting a startled squeak from several women. "Damn it to all bloody hell!! Kate!!"

If he had to tear the entire wretched place apart, he'd find her. Time. He thought he had mastered that demon, but there it was again, mocking, daring him to devour a little more.

A hand on his arm roughly spun him, and he came around squarely into a wall that proved to be Gaubert's chest. With a thunderous glare, Jack stuck a rigid finger in the chucker-out's face.

"Call him off!" he shouted around the mammoth's shoulder.

A simple flip of Marguerite's hand dismissed Gaubert, but cautiously remained close.

"Jack, _mon cher!" _Marguerite crooned. "Why don't we get you… ?"

"I know she's here." Jack's hand shook as he pointed at Marguerite's bodice. "I know those are her flowers; no one else does those like her. Please, Maggie!" It was the closest to begging he had come in a long time. He closed his eyes, feeling the corners of his life beginning to crumble. "I need to see her."

Being a business woman, he had never known Marguerite to be indecisive about anything, but it flickered across her face now, markedly torn.

"She doesn't want to be found," she said, her fair brows nearly touching as she frowned. Then she looked up, accusing. "Not by you, at any rate."

He made a victorious fist, and silently thanked every deity that might have had a hand in his providence. Kate was there! If he couldn't gain entry the front way, there were several through the back.

"Maggie, don't trifle with me. Just tell me where she is."

Decision made, Marguerite's expansive bosom heaved a resigned sigh. "Alize's old room. Top of the stairs, on the left, and don..."

He was already gone.


	43. Chapter 43:Fitting Together the Pieces

**Chapter Forty-three: Fitting Back the Pieces**

**It** had been a busy morning for Kate. Most days she would have checked the bay a dozen or more times by then, but she had been so preoccupied with the parade of people in and out of her room, it was afternoon before she looked out the window for the first time.

At first she couldn't believe what she saw. Surely it was the months and months of wishful thinking that had finally affected her eyesight. Squinting, she looked again, turned away, and then looked back, just to be sure. It had to be a hallucination; one of Ma Mère potions had suddenly gone bad. She stood immobile at the window, seized by disbelief.

Kate was no mariner. One ship often looked the same as the next, subtle differences in rakes of masts or angles of bows being lost on her. Even half-obscured by the tangled forest of yards, masts and rigging of other ships in the harbor, there was no mistaking the _Black Pearl_… nor the voice she heard downstairs, at that very moment.

Cursing herself for having been so derelict in a routine she had followed for months, she was caught between laughing and crying as she scurried across her tiny room, the boot steps and jangling clatter that she knew so well coming down the hallway. Her hand hovered over the doorknob as, just that quickly, the footsteps passed, and faded down the hall, scuffing to a stop at the end, followed by the firm rapping on a door.

Choking back her sobs, Kate leaned her head on the window frame, and fought back tears of rage with tears of hurt and disappointment. Jack might have failed to visit the brothel before he left, but he had certainly made sure it was his first stop now. How well he could have lied, denied any wrongdoing, if she had still been where he had left her?

"Probably as well as he had been lying all along," she choked bitterly.

The same door slammed and boots went by. Muted or not, there was no mistaking the sound of Jack grumbling under his breath as he sped past. Someone, somewhere, laughed; overshadowing his conversation with Amalie on the stairway, but it didn't take a vast imagination to know what they were talking about. He wasn't wasting his time filling his dance card.

Raised voices echoed up from the parlor, Jack shouting something about "the new one." Kate clapped her hands over ears and buried her head between her arms; the last thing she wanted to hear was Jack selecting his next whore.

Her face flared hot with humiliation. Be damned if she was going to be played the fool!

Enraged, she tried to yank the necklace from her neck, intending to heave it out into the street, her frustration peaking when the thing refused to come free. Squealing, she pounded the bedpost, and then hurled her pillow at the door.

Breathless, she fell against the window's edge and sobbed, the balled fist buried in her gut less painful than the stabbing that twisted there.

"Kate!"

The bastard was calling her now… _finally_! Marguerite must have finally warned him.

"Damn it to all bloody hell!! Kate!!" _Sure! Now he's trying to find her._

Jack's boots bounded up the stairs, and drew to a halt at her door. Just when she thought he might have changed his mind, and wasn't going to come in, there was a single blow and the door burst open. He took two determined steps into the room, and halted as Kate whirled around to face him.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" His guttural roar vibrated the walls. He gave the door a violent heave and it slammed shut, rattling the windowpanes.

In the months that he had been gone, she had mourned, and then done everything she could to assure his return. Amid all that, anger had been building, out of the frustration of helplessness and hopelessness. His ignominious entry hadn't helped matters, and now the seething cauldron boiled up and overflowed. A few minutes ago, all she could think was to hug him and shower him in kisses. Now, she vacillated wildly between wanting to throw her arms around him, and hit him.

The latter won.

She turned from the window, and slapped him across the face, with a resounding crack. There was no doubt that he saw it coming, and yet he didn't try to resist, or fend it off. Instead, he stood his ground, his head snapping to the side with the force of it.

He grimly shook off the sting. "I deserved that."

The first hand still stinging, Kate slapped him with the other hand, harder, the silver ornament at his shoulder jangling with the force.

"Probably deserved that one, too," he said, resignedly, rubbing his cheek.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she demanded, hotly then stiffened. "Of course, my mistake. Where _else_ would I find you?"

"I might be inclined to ask you the same question," he growled, standing nose to nose. "I said I was coming back!"

She made an uncouth noise. "The shores of the world are lined with women who have heard that one!"

She turned back toward the window, determined for him not to see the hurt and betrayal that burned so deep. He came up behind her, his hands hovering at her shoulders, and then tentatively settled there.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. He jerked away and retreated to the farthest corner.

The view out the window was a familiar one. By that time of day, the sun fell in molten bands between the buildings and across the blue mosaics of the harbor. The activity on the wharves had slowed in the afternoon heat, the draft animals standing hipshot, heads down dozing, tails lazily twitching. The sky was its deepest sapphire, the anvil-headed clouds of a thunderstorm clustering ominously in the distance.

"I left money," he said, quieter, but no less angry.

Somehow, in his convoluted line of reasoning, he expected that small act to make everything right. He was sadly mistaken.

"And just how many women have you left money on the table, and an 'I'll be back' as you walked out the door?" she said rounding on him, roughly dabbing her face dry.

He winced at that, a soft-underbelly found. "That's not fair."

"Fair!" she screeched. "I'll give you fair! Do you have any idea what I have been doing here for the last year or more?" she demanded, his image blurred by the wetness in her lashes. "You can't imagine how thrilling it has been to get a never-ending lesson on 'What Jack likes,' or the more popular 'How to please Jack.'"

He could never understand the pain of having the women flaunt their escapades with him in torturous detail? How could he have known what it had been like to be judged and measured, for holding herself as too special to join their ranks, saving herself for someone who had bedded every one of them… more than once? She doubted that she could explain what the teasing and chiding had been like, whispers being cut short whenever she walked into a room, snickering behind her back that she would be so gullible as to be waiting for one of the house's best customers.

Jack gave her a profoundly puzzled look. "Didn't you tell them who you are?"

"Who am I?" She raised her arms in question, and he flinched, jumping back as if he expected another blow. "What was I supposed to say? I'm the most recent one to warm your bed? Or, I'm your newest favorite? There are four more favorites downstairs; where in that line would you like me to stand?"

Still rubbing his reddened face, he narrowed on eye. "You know you're different."

"How am I any different? I'm right here among all the other whores?" she said, taking an angry swipe at an errant strand of hair that blew across her face.

Jack commenced to pacing, as best as could be managed in the small space, taking only three or four steps at a pass, his agitation growing with each turn. "You've been different from the very first. You know that," he said, stabbing an accusing finger at her.

"So the standard is it took longer for you to leave me, is that what makes the difference? Did you leave me more money, than the others? Did it take longer for you to tire of me, before going on to the next whore? What's so different, Jack? Explain to me one thing that's different!"

Going rigid, Jack curled a fist. Kate stepped back, his countenance darkening to the point she thought he might hit her. Starting in a low rumble, his voice built until his final words vibrated the walls.

"I have not gone with another woman, since you showed up on me deck—not one. I may have bought their lips, but that was all. And now, I'm standing in a bloody whorehouse, with a cockstand that near brings tears to me eyes, wondering why in the blazing, sodding hell I sailed for nigh on to a month to get back to you!"

He whirled around, looking for something to break, but it was a Spartan room. Finally his eyes landed on a small table in the corner, and he seized the first object his hand fell upon—a pair of scissors. Blindly flinging them across the room, they hit the wall, clattering as they skidded across the floor. His foot kicked the pillow she had thrown earlier. Mouthing several black oaths, he snatched at it, and hurled it against a wall.

"I came back to you." He pivoted back around, and ground out each word. "I. Came. Back. To. You."

A sharp rap at the door startled them both.

"Madame Harper?" It was Gaubert; he called through the door, sounding honestly concerned. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Kate replied. She appreciated the house guard's concern; he seemed to have taken a particular liking to her, and had kept a constant vigil on her behalf during her stay. However, she had strong suspicions that his appearance at the door wasn't completely on his own volition; do doubt Marguerite had a hand in that.

"Are you sure, Madame? It sounds like…"

"There's nothing to worry about," Kate interrupted, giving Jack a cold glare. "You can go back downstairs."

The interruption broke them apart. Like swordsmen, they circled, waiting for what the next exchange would bring. The sounds of the house filled the bristling silence between them. Muted laughter, female shrill and male guttural, echoed up from the parlor; raucous voices passed her door, fading down the hall. The cook shouted, in search of the scullery maid.

"Kate, you knew…." Jack began, keeping a calculated distance.

"Yes, I knew!" she seethed. "I knew you'd put it around, Jack, _a lot_!" She closed her eyes, and drew a shuddering breath.

"Look" she started more quietly, sinking on the bed, "I know you are not the kind of man who comes into a port and spends the night alone. I've seen how the women flock to you. But I am not one of those wide-eyed girls, whose heart goes all a-flutter, because the great Jack Sparrow—excuse me, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow—has chosen me to share his three day spree!" Her head dropped into her palm, and she dug her fingers into her scalp.

"I have not been living under some illusion. I never had visions of forever; I've known from the very beginning that this was only temporary. I knew there would come the day, when I'd be left standing on some shore, watching you sail away. Somehow, I just thought it wouldn't be..." She raised a hand, her mouth moving wordlessly then dropped the hand limply in surrender. "...now."

"Why in the bloody hell a whorehouse?" he pleaded, beseeching the ceiling.

"Because I figured it was one place I'd find you," she jibed, acidly. Unable to sit, she stood, and began arching her own patterns in the floor.

"I was looking for _you_."

"Oh, yes, I heard you down there," she said with a gesture toward the downstairs, and dropped her voice to his graveled level. "'Give me the new one' I think is how you put it. Oh, yes, and then there was 'Not her; isn't there another one?'"

"I was looking for you."

It was becoming a wearisome chant.

"Really? And you never thought to use my name?"

"I was told you weren't using it," he said, through a clenched jaw.

Kate propped her hands on her hips. "By who?"

"By one who apparently knew you," he snarled. "I met some of your satisfied customers. Lovely blokes, eh?"

Jerking her head, she crossed her arms and turned her back, clearly having nothing more to say. Behind her, she could hear Jack pacing and swearing in equal amounts.

Finally, he drew up behind her. "Listen, luv…"

Kate went rigid, her arms stiff at her sides. "Don't call me that!"

"All right, Kate, I…"

"Don't call me that either!"

"All right, Katherine." He warily stopped. "I assume Katherine will be all right."

She shot him a cold glare over her shoulder. "No one has called me Katherine since my father."

"Look, _Madame_," he began with a sarcastic bite. He waited for her retort; receiving only a glare, he continued. "I meant to be back sooner."

She gulped, choking back the growing waver in her voice. "Your note said a month. You snuck off in the night, and left me a lousy note! Nothing more; not a 'Thank you', or 'Good-bye,' or 'Go to Hell', nothing but a lousy note."

"I left money enough to last for well over a month. Hell, I paid for the room a month in advance!"

Remotely, it occurred to her that she should have been touched by his efforts, but she wasn't.

"Well, perhaps you should have explained that to the good Monsieur Gicquel and his kindly wife," she pointed out heatedly. "You had barely left, than I was thrown out."

"That bloody bastard!! I'll shoot him tomorrow."

It was an empty threat; they both knew it, but it did help break the tension. She hadn't considered the consequences of what Jack would do when he learned of her unceremonious eviction. She had been more concerned with whether or not he would come back.

"There weren't many places for me to go." Her tone cooled further, weariness replacing rage.

"But did it have to be _here_?" Jack pleaded, his arms churning the air.

Kate swiveled around enough to give him a narrow look. "What do you suddenly have against whorehouses? Where else would you suggest? The blacksmith?"

He flinched at that, sliding a dark glare from the corner of his eye.

"I can't believe you think that little of me." Her throat tightened, and her eyes began to brim. Rage was beginning to dissolve into hurt. Perhaps that was the worst: his lack of trust, his failure to understand what it had taken for her to survive all those months. "You think I would become a whore, just like that?"

"I think you'd do it just to spite me." His beard dangled bobbed as he stalked closer, the pulse throbbing on his neck. "I think you were so angry, you decided to do the one thing you could think of to get even."

Kate made a very unladylike noise. "I hope this isn't a great blow to your manhood, but you're not worth that!"

A light coded tap at the door that interrupted them both, followed by a small voice.

"Kate? It's me, Minnie."

"Come in, Minnie," Kate answered, throwing Jack a warning look.

Ever nervous, Minnie's eyes rounded with surprise when she saw Jack, and momentarily forgot what she had come for.

"Camille sent me to see if her chemise was ready? She says one of her best customers is due tonight…" Her voice trailed off, unable to tear her eyes away from Jack, in the corner where he had retreated.

Kate took care to remove the heat from her voice; the least sharpness in anyone's tone, and the diminutive housemaid would crumble into a sobbing heap.

"Yes, it's over here." Kate went to a corner table to retrieve the peacock blue bit of lingerie in question.

"Tell Jeanne that hers will be ready by tomorrow," Kate said, handing it over. "I'm still finishing up some of those roses she wanted, and a few other final touches."

Clutching the garment to her thin chest, Minnie bobbed a curtsy and scurried out.

Jack stared at the corner table and the woodenly walked to it. He peered over the garments tossed there, poking his finger at the bit of thread, lengths of narrow ribbon, and pin cushions. Then he closed his eyes, his head sinking in surrender.

"Marguerite needed a sempstress," Kate was barely able to squeeze out. "And I needed a place to live… to wait for you."

"Jesus," he croaked in a hoarse whisper. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Because…" Her throat caught, forcing her to start again, voice quavering. She bent in the corner and retrieved the scissors he had thrown. "Because you were so determined to think the worst of me. And yes," she added as an afterthought, brushing her hair back from her face. "I wanted to hurt you, just for a little while, like you hurt me."

His mouth moved, but there were no words, as he went through one emotion, and then another. He looked up from under his brows, with that damnable smile—the crooked one—that he knew would charm, the boyish one that could charm yellow off the buttercups.

And it worked, shattering her heart.

"Please, Kittie." His throat moved as he swallowed, desperate hope and wretched fear battling on his face. "Will you have me?"

He caught her in his arms as she lunged at him, her tears soaking the coarse cloth of his coat. She shook so hard it took a time for her to realize that he shook too. He was so warm and solid in her arms, no longer just an image in a dream; she clutched at him tightly, afraid that, if she were to let go, he would vanish. She kissed his neck, and felt his pulse there against her lips.

He held her back, and traced her features over and over, as if to assure that it was really she. Then, with eloquent tenderness, he cupped her face in his hands.

Through tear-salted kisses, they murmured accusations and regrets, and took out their pain and anger, each wanting to make the other pay for what a year had cost them. Jack was clumsy and urgent, lacking any of his usual polish, and Kate was joyous. It meant that it was as he had said: he hadn't been with a woman. They had been apart longer than they had known each other, their two months of joy now so distant that she worried if he would be different. Bridges of the flesh, so freshly built, had been shattered, and now to be rebuilt.

She remembered him in increments, so familiar, and yet so strange: the small bump on the inside of his mouth as he kissed her, the small mole on his chest near the curve of his arm, and the single fine hair near the hard nub of his nipple, and the small hollow just inside the arc of his hip bone. There were the silky-fine hairs at the nape of his neck, the springy coarseness between his legs, the sharp musk of his arousal, and his quiet grunt when he entered her.

They slowly relearned the language of each other's body, rebuilding the fragile span that had bridged them together. Luckily the body recalled quickly, and they ended in a tangle of limbs, once again bound. Jack spoke too quietly, but it sounded for all like a prayer of thanks, in a tongue she didn't recognize.

For a time, he lay on top of her, and was eventually able to speak. "That was the first time I've ever had you in a real bed."

For some reason, he wasn't including their last night together, in the tavern, but Kate wasn't of a mind to point that out. She made a suggestive move with her hips. "How was it?"

Rolling, he fell away, landing spread-eagle next to her. He stared at the ceiling with heavy-lidded eyes then slowly closed them, complacently nestling his head into the bedclothes.

"I'll have the _Pearl's_ carpenter start building one tomorrow."

After, they dozed off. The afternoon heat, their tumultuous reunion, and the complacency of making love left them listless, and they slept until twilight. Hunger finally roused them. They dressed in only what was necessary, and made their way down the servant's stairs to the kitchen. There they made a meal of bread, cheese, and Kate feeding him cold fried fish with her fingers, while Jack related stories of his "bit o' piratin'", as he put it. Kate couldn't help but notice that he pointedly avoided making any mention of where he had been for the last year.

After, they retired upstairs and rediscovered each other. Anger now gone, only their passion remained, and they each attempted to show the other just how much the other was missed.

**For** months, Kate's dreams had been cold, whirling worlds consisting of line figures, gray-green waves on rock-laden shores and ghostly images of a mast and sail, black against slate, fading into oblivion. Now, she basked in sunshine, gold-laced smiles and a sense of belonging, all wrapped in warmth, and a faint vapor of rum.

Something suddenly dragged her from the brilliance, and she woke to the familiar darkness of her corner room. At first, she could only lay blinking away the fog that blurred the imagined from reality. The she jerked and frantically groped across the mattress and jumbled bedclothes.

Empty. Of course, as it had been for months.

So, it all had been a dream—again. Jack was gone.

It was too cruel.

Deflated, her senses slowly sharpened as she stared into the darkness of the pitched ceiling. With the dread of another sleepless night tearing at her gut, she wondered about another reality—the cold haunting thought that she was alone.

A faint sound drew her attention. She rolled to find Jack sitting naked on a stool, staring out the window. Her gasp of relief was quickly replaced by concern. His legs bent under him, hands limp on his thighs, he could have been a specter, glowing blue-white in the moonlight. It was odd to see those hands so immobile; they were always so articulate, punctuating his every thought. Now they seemed disjointed, as if belonging to someone else.

She sleepily rubbed her eyes. "Jack?"

It was the magical hours between yesterday and tomorrow; typical for that hour, the house was quiet. She spoke in a hush, but loudly enough that he should have heard her. He didn't move.

She rose; the chill of the hour touching her bare skin as she threw back the quilt. It never ceased to amaze her how temperatures that would have been considered as gloriously summer-like in the Highlands could bring a chill in the Caribbean. Jack's shirt hung on the post of the footboard, tossed there in his haste to take her to bed. She slipped it over her head as she cautiously moved closer.

"Jack?"

Crossing her arms, she shivered, but not entirely from the cold. His stillness was eerie, as if he were somewhere else, his body an empty shell, left waiting.

"Jack, what are you doing?"

She hazarded to touch his shoulder and jerked back. For a heart-stopping second, she thought he was dead, he was so cold and unresponsive. Jack always seemed impervious to the effects of the elements: rain or sun, heat or wind, he moved through it with equality. Never had she seen him comment on discomfort, and yet never had she felt him be so cold. She searched for signs of life and nearly choked with relief at seeing the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Leaning to look out the window, Kate thought perhaps there might be something fascinating there. The moonlight fell in a silver-blue blanket on the rooftops, and the trees, sparkling in a diamond-like glitter on the harbor beyond. A nightjar circled, only its furtive whistles to mark its path. Nothing remarkable. Nothing unusual. Nothing a man of the sea would find interesting.

"You should be in bed."

She started at the sound of his voice, a mere trace of his usual graveled-gruff. He looked up, his head barely moving. "I can see you shivering from here."

Unblinking, his gaze moved woodenly back to the window. By the power of suggestion, she shivered, and then realized that she had been doing so since she rose. She wrapped one arm tighter about her middle, the billowing sleeve of his shirt draping nearly to her knees.

"What are you doing?" She laid a hand on his unyielding shoulder. "You're as cold as I am. Why don't you come to bed?"

There was something different about him; she had noticed it from the moment she saw him standing in the doorway. He was still Jack, glib and animated, but he jumped at every unexpected noise, and checked every corner, as if he feared something was going to jump out. The string of beads that dangled at his forehead was different: the coin was gone, replaced by a crescent of scrimshaw. When they had finished their lovemaking, he had clung as if she were a raft, drowning in a cold sweat.

When she had first touched him, he flinched. She put it off to the strangeness that sprung from being separated for so long, but soon came to realize it was much more than that. Something had changed him, deeply.

"I was just looking at the night," he said in a hoarse murmur.

A breeze stirred the curtains and he lifted his face to meet it, the tails of his scarf wafting about his shoulders, pallid against the black smudges of his hair. "There was a time… I never thought I would feel this again… or see the water… the dark."

He blindly sought her hand, the scars on his knuckles a fine web of white, and clutched it tightly once found, a continuation of his need for human contact he had been exhibiting since his arrival. "Nor would I ever lie with you, again."

A tremor passed through him, gooseflesh rippling across his chest and down his limbs.

"I've seen Hell." The grip on her hand tightened, as if he were hanging on to keep from being drug away. "Hell—or the nearest thing to it I'd ever want to see,

Dante's Inferno, without the flames." His lips moved in a feeble attempt at a smile, but failed. "It was white." The corners of his eyes pinched, either from pain, or squinting in a glare. "Bright. A sailor's torment. No water, no wind, just… there."

In halting, short tumbles of words he began to tell a jumbled tale of sea monsters and goddesses, eternal servitude and Davy Jones, cannibals and pirate wars, and keepers and kings. His story was so disjointed and rambling, questions bubbled like a simmering pot, but she said nothing. The telling was anguishing, and yet he pressed on, spurred by the need to divest himself, a poison that needed spitting out. At times, it seemed he had forgotten she was there—and yet, she knew he needed her, a witness, so that she could tell him it was all right.

"I saw meself… nothing but me own company… over and over and over and—" His words faded as his hands curled into fists, until the tendons in his forearms showed. Each word was ground out through clenched teeth. "In every wretched, pitiable, despicable form there is. Fragmented bits, staring, like a bunch of gawkers at a lynching."

He drew a ragged breath, pressing his fists into his eye sockets and rocked. "I deserved it—I knew it." Dropping his hands, he took another quivering breath, and shook soundlessly. "Maybe that was the hell of it."

Kate dug her nails into her palms with the need to reach for him. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to fall on her knees before him and hold him, and soothe away the torment. In the quiet twilight, with only the throaty call of a nightjar outside, it was his confessional, and instead she stood helplessly aside.

"Something kept driving me, to get out of there, and yet, at the same time—I knew I would never leave it. Jones wouldn't allow it.

"For a bit, I'd given up—surrendered." His mouth took an ironic twist. "Odd, isn't it? I thought, even if I did manage to get away, I'd never be able to come back to you. Bloody demon would have followed me; already followed me half around the world." He looked off in the direction of his ship, a dark spot against the glittering water, the furrows between his brows deepening. "It was to be as I had always imagined—me and the _Pearl,_ to the depths, together."

He clamped his lower lip between his teeth, giving his head a remorseful shake the ornament at his shoulder tinkling with his movement, its silver surface reflecting bits of moonlight. "Bloody, treacherous wench didn't have to shackle me. Her own means, that's all she ever cared about."

His shoulders slumped as he studied his hands, their deep tan sharp against the pale of his thighs. With eyes lowered, his lashes fanning in dark crescents on his cheeks. "When Jones raised the _Pearl_, she was till dead; Beckett took her spirit, her soul was gone."

Kate's heart lurched at Beckett's name, her hatred for the man rising like bile in her throat.

"So I gave her part of mine." He lifted one shoulder, shaking his head helplessly. "Neither of us could live without the other anyway. I thought, if anything were to ever happen to me, at least she would live on." He gave a sideways look, somewhat embarrassed at that confession. "Damned Jones knew it when he took me; he knew if he wanted to claim me entire soul, he would have to take her.

He drove the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, as if to grind out the memories. "She was afraid—felt her tremble when Jones' bloody beast touched her. She was a shambles by then, but her spirit was whole; she would have fought, if I'd asked her. The point, though, was to get everyone away."

"And it worked?" She bit her lip, not having meant to speak.

"Aye, it worked." Sagging with defeat, he spoke so low she barely heard him.

"I had the ability to be with you forever," he said, watching his fingers curl, as if whatever it had been was there, "right in the palm of me hand."

His mouth quirked, as if recalling a private joke, or laughing at himself. "Gave it to someone else, who needed it worse. Remains to be seen, if me efforts were worthwhile. Truth be told, what joy would there be in living forever, when you're not?" he said, looking up at her. "Immortality might not necessarily be everything one could hope for.

"The _Pearl's_ near destroyed. I'd be ashamed for you to see the old girl, just now. Torn and scarred, she is. Bloody old reprobate Barbossa took me ship—again. Took me near a month, but I got her back. Still don't have the stink of him out of me cabin."

He looked up, grief-stricken and choked. "They're all gone, Kittie; the entire crew."

Kate sagged and leaned against the wall for support. "All of them?"

All the while he had been gone, Kate had focused on willing Jack to come back safely; never had she thought to worry for the _Pearl_, or her crew. They were collectively the closest thing to a family for her in years—maybe forever—and now they were gone.

"Gibbs, Cotton, the gruesome twosome and Marty… they made it… all in the longboat… along with—" His voice faded away, as if it was too painful to utter the names. "The rest… are gone."

"Kirkland?" It hardly seemed fair to worry for one person over the others, but he had been so very special to her.

"No." A ghost of a smile traced his lips. "Accidentally left him in Tortuga, we did. The poor soul was still there waiting; he near burst into tears at the sight of us."

She drew a sharp sob of relief, even as the finality of the statement was a declaration of death for so many—so many faces that flashed through her mind, so many comrades and friends. She had heard their stories, tended their wounds and written their families. Now, who would ever know of any of them?

Jack's shoulders began to quake and he fell against her. He wrapped his arms around her hips, his head against her middle, and they cried together.

"Come to bed, Jack," she said at length, and rose.

He placidly obeyed. She pulled the quilt high around their shoulders and gathered him close. He clung to her, as a drowning man would have hung on to a floating cask. Slowly, his body went lax, and his head grew heavier on her chest. As his breathing slowed into a shallow rhythm, a horde of questions tumbled back in her mind, about the truths he told—and the ones that he hadn't.

Gaps glared from Jack's dark tale; it was painfully obvious that there was far more to his tangled saga. Assumptions were too easily made, and she vowed to resist, until she had heard the rest of what he had to say.

Jack stirred, mumbling against her neck, his fingers twitching at her sides. A kiss at his temple, a few soothing strokes on his back, and he slid back to his rest.

Kate lay staring at the shadowed beams above her bed. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Whatever horrors there had been, Jack had survived to come back, whether by desire or default remained to be seen.

Nevertheless, he came back… to her… but for how long?


	44. Chapter 44: Discoveries

**Chapter Forty-four: Discoveries**

**They** woke to the raucous mixture of male and female laughter, and boots pounding past their door. The sun blazed a brilliant path through the window and across the floor, the day's sea breeze stirring the curtains.

Jack made a rumbling sound that suggested a bear rising from its winter nap. "Bloody hell!" Mouth twisted against the pillow, his voice scratchy with sleep. "These bleeding places never change."

Kate sleepily rolled toward him, and propped her head in her hand. "I would have to take your word for it. This is the only one I've ever woke up in."

His face half-buried, only one eye was visible, dark above the pillow's linen-white. It rolled toward her, and then narrowed. "That's not necessarily all bad."

With a grunt, he rose to his elbows and rubbed his face. Then he pushed up, heaving a satisfied sigh as he perched on the edge of the bed.

Kate was beginning to discover the joys of having Jack back, observing him in the midst of all the menial things done in the process of a day. It was a rare occasion to watch him wake; as a rule, he always rose first, up and gone before her day started.

Now, wiggling his toes, he gave a jaw-cracking yawn then lazily scratched—a shoulder, a rib, his balls—then yawned again, giving his head an ornament-clattering shake at the end. When he turned to her, he was awake, his usual, insufferably perky self—already!

"Good morning, luv!"

He leaned and kissed her then tunneled his nose under her brambled hair, to the crook of her neck.

"Mm!" He beatifically inhaled. "I've missed that."

"Missed what?"

"You," he sighed, in half-lidded complacency. "You smell of sleep, and dreams and bedding, and just a touch of… lavender?" He frowned, puzzled. "Can't say I recall that."

"I've been working in the gardens."

He kissed her again, leisurely exploring and teasing, but broke away when she tried to draw him closer.

"I know what you need," he announced, pushing away as the smell of frying sausages and steaming plantains rose from the kitchen.

She reached out and suggestively stroked his arm. "There could be several things that I need."

He slithered away, and set to scurrying about the room, gathering his clothes. Kate watched, wondering how one person could walk about a room with such abandon, stark naked. Struggling to wake further, she lay curled on her side as he chattered about God knew what, leading her to reconsider the merits of sleeping alone. Hastily jamming his shirttail into his breeches, amid a flourish of hips and hands, Jack padded barefoot out of the room, pledging to return as his voice echoed down the hall.

Kate's efforts to rise had only advanced—not due to lack of effort—to sitting up against the pillow when Jack burst back into the room. Balancing a clattering china-laden tray, he hooked the door behind him with a foot and swung it closed, giving it a final push with his rear. The same foot adroitly snared the stool at the window, and drug it to the bedside.

"Gifts for the queen!" he announced setting down the tray on the stool.

A pot of coffee, cups and a small cream pitcher dominated the tray, on the side a hastily gathered breakfast of fruit, toast and kippered fish.

"Mornings don't seem very kind," he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste at her crumpled state as he sat.

"Not in my world, no," she sighed dully, rubbing her head.

"Some say," he began, going through the motions of pouring, "the mornings are the best part of the day. Meself," he paused, lifting his eyebrows in case she was to be confused by another "self" in the room, "have found the evenings to be much more agreeable in their basic nature, although, there are—"

"Jack," she interrupted, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

He stopped in mid-pour, mildly interested. "Yes?"

Kate did all she could to curtail her exasperation, but failed miserably. "Is there a point coming—anytime soon?"

He leaned away, curling his lip. "Tut, tut, darling! You really should have something done about that."

Watching him prepare coffee, she had another one of those moments of discovery. His stream of chatter was another bridge; she could close her eyes and pretend he had never left. But the sight of his hands, elegantly long-fingered, picking up, holding and putting down each object touched a memory. Still tar-stained, the rectangular nails were the same, as were the scars that webbed his knuckles. They marked a sharp contrast against the delicately flowered pink and white china. Many times a tea or coffee pot could look out of place in a man's hand. Somehow, Jack managed it with enough flair to transcend the incongruity of Kohl-lined eyes, a brand at his wrist, and a bone in his hair.

_There's a pirate pouring in the parlor._

One by one, or taken together, they touched images of the past, pinching the gap of their separation smaller and smaller.

Neither of them mentioned the pre-dawn scene. It almost could have never happened, except Jack was markedly more relaxed. Not necessarily at peace—he was far from that—but his spirit was eased.

Her reverie was snapped, by the realization of a pair of sable eyes staring at her. One eyebrow took a quizzical lift, disappearing under the edge of his scarf.

"I thought I lost you there for a moment. Here." He handed her the coffee as if it were a treasured reward.

Jack leaned to prop his elbows on his legs, meditatively flexing his hands, looking in every direction but hers. She impulsively reached to him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He twitched, startled. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, assured by the hard curve of his body under his shirt. "I'm just glad you're here."

Relieved, he put a hand over hers and squeezed. "Glad to be here, darling. There were times it appeared highly improbable."

His eye caught something of interest at her neck. "What's this?" he asked, fingering her necklace. "Hole stones?"

She was only slightly surprised that he knew what the stones were, and so assumed that he would be familiar with their purpose as well. "I wasn't sure if you would believe in such things."

He snorted, one corner of his mouth tucking up. "Darling, you're speaking to a man who's been dead, gone to Hell—literally _and_ figuratively—and came back to tell about it. I've seen many things, some of which defied all logic, and others that were totally logical, but defied explanation."

"I needed to bring you back." Self-consciously fondling the stones, she recalled the desperation that had driven her to the conjure woman's doorstep.

"Let's see," he said thoughtfully, angling his head. As his eyes traversed the room, he began meditatively rubbing his chest. "Iron under the bed, a gris-gris bundle lying on the table, and the smell of sandalwood in the air. I'd venture to guess someone has been to Ma Mère." He broke into one of those smiles that always served to dazzle. "I'd say it was money well-spent."

Looking away, he went introspective again, his mouth working in a private conversation. Kate couldn't help but notice the differences in him. For all the familiarities, there were changes that couldn't be ignored. Even after his confessional the night before, he still carried the weight of another burden.

She watched him over the rim of her cup, fiddle and twitch, nodding absent-mindedly at anything she said. As she idly chewed on a corner of the toast, it wasn't a lost detail that he hadn't had a coffee with her; he used to. Now, he had politely declined then reluctantly acquiesced and took a few obligatory sips at her insistence.

Finally, when she couldn't bear the tension-laden awkwardness any further, she set down the cup. "You were with her, weren't you? Elizabeth?"

The mere uttering of the name made her stomach clench, a haunting ghost brought to life on the bed between them. Jack jumped as if jabbed in the ribs by a sword, darting looks around the room. She watched him as he went from startled, to accusing, and then finally to resigned, conceding to her insight.

"How did you know?"

Her last bit of toast turned to sawdust in her mouth. There was rarely any doubt when Jack had something on his mind. The struggle came in trying to learn what it was. "There was still something you were trying not to say."

Her next admission came with more than a little pain. "Besides, you were calling for her in your sleep."

His displeasure at that thought was obvious. "It's not how you think," he was quick to say. "I know you," he said judiciously, wagging a finger, "thinking no differently, than any other woman would be thinking. I promise—I swear—she found me…"

A rushing filled Kate's ears, blocking out everything, while black spots began to swim before her eyes.

"…was there, and I was there…," he was saying in broken bits and pieces as her hearing cleared. "…and so was I. And yes… for a time…" He wavered, and gulped. "A _very_ little time… I fancied…"

Kate closed her eyes in dread of what was to come next. God! It was worse than she had imagined; the cup she held began to rattle in its saucer. He was leaving, and was trying to find a way to tell her that he would soon be gone.

It was too cruel. In a way, she would have preferred that he hadn't come back, if all he was going to do was leave again. She tried to rationalize that at least she had seen that he was well, shattered, but alive. It was an empty thought.

Tears welled. She could barely see through the fabric of the sheet she pleated with one hand, frantically groping for a way to dodge the subject. If she could keep him talking, maybe she could put off the inevitable. Jack was easily distracted, and loved nothing more than a good avoidance of the uncomfortable.

"You told me once I reminded you of her." It hadn't been just the once, nor just him. Others—Gibbs, Norrington, and the dark-eyed stranger who had visited one day—had all said much the same thing, if not by name, certainly in spirit.

"Only the once, and it wasn't meant as an endearment," Jack said with a definitive swipe of his hand. "If you'll recall, I did everything humanly possible to avoid you, and _not_ because I wanted her," he announced, emphatically cutting off her thoughts. "It was because I wanted nothing to do with her. She scared me."

Shaking his head, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "All I could imagine was that you were going to be another… her."

"And?" she asked breathlessly, peeling a cautious look. Suddenly she needed a drink, and snatched up the cup; its contents slopping on the bedclothes, her hand shook so.

"You're _nothing_ alike." His categorical firmness came out in a rush of relief, his relief as well as hers. "I mean, yes, you're both confident and strong, and can wield a sword…" He looked up and met her gaze with a long, searching one of his own. "But you've a heart, and you don't see every person as a stepping stone toward what you want. She's a killer."

"I've killed," she said, and ducked her nose into her cup. It was an uncomfortable truth, and one that she preferred not to highlight, but if it was a standard by which he measured, then she hoped to at least score there.

A corner of his mouth tucked up into a glimmer of his familiar crooked smile. "Aye, you have. But you regret it, and carry the guilt of it. She does it, because the unfortunate soul was between her and what she wanted, one more obstacle to be dispatched," he finished with a startling vehemence.

It was notable that he never once spoke Elizabeth's name. Kate wondered if it was out of fear of her reaction, or of his own, as if saying the name would open a floodgate of emotions he couldn't contain.

"And so you were there… and she was there…?" The cold realization of where this was going seized Kate. Losing her appetite, she shoved the virtually untouched breakfast away.

Here it was, the reason he had come back: to tell her he was never coming back. A dozen voices argued that, if that were the case, he would have never come back in the first place. Long, uncomfortable good-byes weren't Jack's style. Either he would have returned to pretend everything was the same—which he could perform flawlessly—or he would have never come back at all. A confession of undying love and devotion for someone else didn't figure readily into the equation.

On the other hand, if Jack was expecting her to play the other woman, he was sadly mistaken. She couldn't bear sharing him. She had shared him with the _Pearl_, but that had been knowingly; he and his ship were a package, there was no separating them. This was different. This was a choice, and she was not going to play games.

Jack had literally blown into her life. In the next dozen or more weeks, he had set her world on end, being both blessing and curse. And then, just as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone, like the rest of his life, leaving only turmoil in his wake. Never had she demanded anything of him except the truth, which he was giving her now—maybe. Jack was Jack; she had kept her expectations low, but this…

"Jack I don't want to hear this!" She turned her head, tears squeezing out on her cheeks. He took her by the chin and brought her back to face him, his fingers digging into her skin, his eyes inches from hers. Realizing that his fingers were digging into her flesh, he let go.

"You're going to hear it. I need you to hear it." His conviction left her wondering if it was for her benefit or his.

He took her hand, so pale against his bronze, and held it in his lap as if it were fragile glass, lightly tracing her fingers with his. "I went through damnation, Hell and war to be able to come back. I can't say I have nothing to be ashamed of, because that would be a lie—and you'd see through it quickly enough with those cursed eyes. No man over the age of thirteen has a clear conscious, but I'm here.

"You once asked me not to lie, so here it is." It appeared that he had been preparing this speech for a while, and was determined to pursue it, no matter the consequences. "I can't manage without you, Kitty."

Kate's breath caught, and she looked away. After being left for a year, she wasn't about to be drawn in by a smooth lie. "Don't be silly, Jack. You don't…"

"Silly is trying to be otherwise. You forget, I had a year of trying, and made an utter shambles of the entire, wretched affair."

He drew a deep breath, as grim as a man walking a rotten gangplank, disaster and peril only steps away. "If I didn't learn another bloody thing, I learned that I need you, Kitty." He looked up searching her face for any sign of reason to be hopeful.

"The Locker was hell," he said. "But then, I woke up to a new hell: you weren't there. I tried to find a way to live forever, but now I know now why I failed: my heart wasn't mine to give. It was here, with you."

His eyes went to liquid brown, and as bottomless as she had ever seen. Jack was a master at hiding his thoughts, but he wasn't hiding anything now. If he were lying, then it was one of his best.

"I need you, Kitty," he said in an urgent whisper. "I need you safe, but heaven help this wretched carcass, I need you with me more."

He ended with a lame lift of the shoulder, resigned but satisfied, mission complete. "I just thought you should know that. Take me in, or toss me out; do what you will. It makes no difference, either way, I'm ruined. If you'll have me, I'm here."

"Is this guilt you're trying now?"

He dropped his head, and peeked up from under his lashes. "If it'll work. You should be guilty, for destroying a man in his prime. Throw me out now, Kitty, and I'll be the doddering codger in the corner that everyone throws a copper, to get him to stop rambling."

His charms were working; she began to crumble. "And if I take you in?"

He broke into a dazzling grin and spread his arms in victory. "Then I'm a happy man. And no man can dream for more than that."

She had another moment of discovery, another one of those things she had nearly forgotten about Jack: the emotional whirlwind. He could take a person from the depths of despair, to euphoric heights and back down again, all in a matter of moments.

A small piece of paper, bundled around a piece of lead shot, was still snugly placed in her skirt pocket. "_Never!" _That affirmation was equally emphatic and touching as the declaration he had just made.

She bit her lip, choking back the tears, as she fought the urge to slap him again, just for scaring her so badly. The day before, she had been both hurt and enraged by his failure to trust her. It would seem they both had that lesson to learn, and a difficult one it was.

Head bent, shoulders tensed to the point of rigid, his fingers knotted into the bedclothes as he waited for her reply, and her heart broke just that little more.

"Do you think it's any easier for me?" she asked, wishing her voice wasn't so querulous. "Do you think that I just merrily went on with my life, when you're gone? Do you think that I don't spend most of my day staring at the horizon, wondering if you're ever coming back?"

She blinked back a flood of tears. "I knew you were dead. I heard it, and I felt it… and I saw it. A part of me died, too… and I mourned."

It wasn't easy to catch Jack unawares, but she had. Looking up, he went from surprised, to shocked, to delighted astonishment.

"I… I… never thought… I never meant…" he stammered.

They sniffed and roughly dabbed their eyes. She put her arms out for him. "Come here."

He settled into her embrace, head on her shoulder, molding his shape to hers. Complacently sighing together, they lapsed into placidness, basking in what they had waited so long for. There was still a strained awkwardness; touching made it easier, and so they did. Kate's hand drifted up under the heavy curtain of braids and cords of Jack's hair. There her fingers idly combed through the silky-softness, while he repeatedly traced the curve of her collarbone.

Where does one start after a year? What does one do when their single wish has been granted? There was so much Jack hadn't said, and yet he had been remarkable forthcoming. By the sound of it, he had been through several hells.

"_I came back to you."_

What more could she ask?

**Sounds** of the house closed in around them. It might have been a brothel, a place of business, but to Kate it was home, more so than the _Black Pearl_, if duration had any bearing on the title. The women living there might have been employees, but it was a home to them as well, and it possessed the same rhythms as any dwellings. The muffled rumble of male laughter came through the walls. From outside the window, the laughter and chatter of the house servants could be heard, the smell of wood smoke rising from the fires, as they prepared to boil laundry. The fishmonger's could be heard, his nasal call at the back step, making his daily delivery.

It was all more than she had ever dared to imagine: a real bed, clean sheets, enough food—and Jack. For him, she would surrender the rest.

It was odd to have Jack in the middle of such scenes of domesticity. Her associations of him were with the sounds of water and ship, wind and wave, and all the elements that constituted freedom. From what he had told her, in his childhood he had been bound by family and home, but had long since risen from those bonds and flown, never to be restricted again. He seemed altogether comfortable in such a domestic setting, but then Jack had a way about him. He could walk into the Royal Court with the same élan as he strode the docks or entered an alehouse. Maybe it was just a testimonial to how much time he had spent in whore houses, or Marguerite's, at any rate.

"The times I dreamed of this," he sighed, contentedly. Whatever the weight had been that dragged at him earlier, it was lifted and forgotten.

Her arms flexed around his shoulders. "No more dreams; I'm here." She touched her lips to the dark crown of his head. "A promise?"

An affirmative movement against her shoulder was her response.

"Don't ever leave me again?"

His arms tightening, he turned his head and gently kissed her neck. "Think of another one, darling. That one was granted long ago."

They lay quiet, afraid to let go, afraid that if they did their fragile bond might shatter and be lost forever, basking in the culmination of a year's struggle. The sounds of the house coming to life rose around them, seemingly bending around the small room and continuing on, cocooning them in their solitude.

In time, Jack's head moved, and he brought Kate's mouth to his. While in the midst of a languid probe of every crevice there, his hands began their own exploration.

"I'm having a thought, here," he murmured against her skin. His hips moved against hers in suggestion. His hands grew more persistent, cupping the full of her breast.

A slight shift of her hips was her response. Kate wondered vaguely how one could undress so quickly, but then it was Jack; no further explanation was necessary. Carelessly tossing his shirt and breeches to the floor, he wormed his way under the sheet. With coffee eyes bright with tease, and a gold-flecked smile around an even more golden tongue, he began a torturous journey downward.

The urgency of coming together for the first time had passed. This was the Jack she remembered, the careful, patient lover, so accomplished at giving what she wanted, and yet withholding what she wanted most, suspending her between wishing he would take just a bit longer, and at the same time, coaxing him to go faster.

Eventually his head popped out at the other end of the sheet, and elicited delighted groans from her as he did unspeakable things between her toes. She blindly groped for him, but he gently resisted, and began a shattering journey to the arch of her foot then the tender skin at the back of her ankle, and upward to…

"What the…?" He drew back, his voice trailed off in a strangled gasp. Muttering blackly, he ran a hand down her leg then gave her an accusing look. "What the bloody hell happened?"

Jerked from her sensual euphoria, Kate sat up, expecting to see her leg missing, judging from the alarm in his voice. "What?"

"This!" he fumed, pointing a rigid finger.

"Oh, that." She chuckled softly, lying back into the pillow again. "I waxed."

"I know that!" he huffed indignantly. "Why?"

"Why not?" She sat up again, feeling her smooth, hairless shin. "Isn't it wonderful!"

"No!" he shrieked, his eyes bulging. "It's unnatural! It's…it's…"

"Severine and Camille said they had customers who loved it. Marguerite told me in France, they did it all the time. All the ladies at Court…"

"Well, you're not at Court, are you?" he said, with a mocking edge, his bare chest heaving. "Why would you do…this?" Eyeing her leg, his lip curled in disgust as he flipped a dismissive hand.

"Why not?"

Resting her chin on her knee, she ran her hand down her leg again. Spreading warm beeswax there had been a soothing indulgence; the strips of worn linen pressed into it a minor thing. The first yank of the cloth, however, she thought she had been relieved of her skin. Aloe and witch hazel compresses, along with not a little oral application of bumbo and spiced perry wine had been effective in soothing the discomfort.

Never had she done anything so wildly decadent, or luxurious. Taking baths weekly, with soaps talcs, creams and powders, shampoo—living in the best brothel in the West Indies had it benefits.

"Believe me, it hurt like hell, but I love it," she said. "You feel so clean. Don't tell me you've never seen it before."

"Of course, I have!" he burst out then collected himself. "Maybe… could be… once or twice…" His mood returned. "But not on you!"

"Why not?"

"Because, it's… it's… it's… not natural!"

"You said that," she pointed out tolerantly. "The girls said some men like it."

"And some _don't_." The dangles in his beard bobbed wildly at the jerk of his head.

She was still annoyed with him, for having left her, and still wanted to make him atone for all the hurt that he had caused her. A little of the things she had learned, while she had been living at Marguerite's, seemed like just the right kind of salt for his wounds. "Then I don't suppose you'd like the ones that even wax—"

"No!" he blurted adamantly. "Like lying with an infant," he grumbled, grimacing when he realized she had heard. He gave her an imperious glare down the long line of his nose. "Hair was put where it was put, because it _ought_ to be there."

"Men shave."

"I don't!" he announced with cold finality.

"Well, many—most—do. It's cleaner; it shows a man cares about his appearance."

"I care!" he said with asperity. "And I'll have you know I'm cleaner than I ever was." He lifted an arm in exhibition and noisily sniffed. "I washed last week, just for you."

He shifted effortlessly to a wounded look. His lower lip actually protruded in a pout. "Didn't you notice?"

Jack's sensibilities could be at times very fragile. Considering what he had been through over the last year, she was willing to try to be a bit forgiving. "A week ago is a little difficult to notice, but I appreciate the thought… and the effort."

She leaned closer, to toy with a braid at his shoulder. "Marguerite has a tub, actually two. She's rather fussy about her _filles_."

Another part of the reputation of the house involved cleanliness and hygiene, two things very close to Kate's heart. There were, indeed, many advantages; compared to a ship—a pirate ship, at that—she had been living in the lap of luxury.

She ran a hand across the smooth flat of his chest. "I'm sure we could arrange something."

She wondered how familiar Jack would be with those same indulgences. He had a way of worming his way into anything he wished. The internal functions of a whole house wouldn't be beyond his domain. She closed her mind to the images that came too readily, of Jack in those same baths—and not alone, to be sure.

"Not if I'm going to come out with me balls as bare as the day I was born!" he said, twisting out from under her consoling attempts.

Uncomfortable under his haughty glare, Kate sat back, pulling the sheet around her hips. "Marguerite said the last time you were here, you paid—"

"Belay that!"

"She said in Paris there were joy houses, where they take all—"

"I wouldn't know anything about that," he cut in, waving an irritated hand.

"She said you told her."

"Belay! Belay! Just shut it! Must we lie in bed discussing Marguerite?" he declared, beseeching the ceiling. He paused, one eye squinting suspiciously. "You didn't… I mean… have you… ?"

Her tender skin cringed at the thought, but it was her turn to pose a pout, one far more effective than his. "You don't remember?"

"Of course, I remember!" His gaze settled where the sheet dipped at her waist. "Just don't recall… clearly… just now… that's all," he finished, lamely. His demeanor shifted seamlessly to suffering. "I've been under a strain… and I was so enraptured with your powers…"

"Forget it, Jack," she warned lightly, crossing her arms. "You're only fanning the fire."

His fingers inched their way up her leg, clandestinely seeking a solid enough grip on the sheet.

"That's not going to work either, "she warned, halting his hand with hers. " You really didn't notice did you?"

"I was pre-occupied." He gave her a long look, measuring. "I know you didn't. I would have noticed something so blatantly perverse."

"You didn't notice my legs, until just now." She batted her eyes coquettishly. "I just thought you might like something a little different."

"Ah-ha! You had no idea I was coming." He crossed his arms, his jerky nod marked by a clatter of metal at his shoulder, clearly under the impression that he had just discovered a diabolical plot: deception by denuding. "If it hurt so bloody much, why would you put yourself through such a thing?"

"Are you suggesting I did it for someone else?"

"Since, you brought it up." His eyes rounded, his chin jutting out.

"How dare you!" She could feel her color rising. "How can you…?"

In a fluid move, he jerked up an edge of the sheet, and shot his hand underneath, deftly seeking the area in question.

"I thought so!" he declared victoriously, staving off her squeals of protest. "I knew you didn't!"

With mischievous delight, his fingers went deeper, her sounds of alarm melting into appreciative groans. She pulled him closer as she sank deeper into the pillows.

"I'll give you an hour to stop."

"Only an hour, eh?" His eyes glinted with mischief as he gave them a dramatic roll. "Given such time constraints, I guess I'll have to forego several things I had in mind."

He bent to kiss her, his fingers teasing and baiting. "Promise? Promise me," he taunted. "Promise? No changes. You, that's all I want—all I'll ever want—you."

"Promise."


	45. Chapter 45: Cleaning Up the Past

**Chapter Forty-five: Cleaning up the Past**

**It** was the second time that night that Kate had woken.

The first had been to the moans, and sleep-laden whimpers as Jack battled unseen terrors. She had tried to comfort him, but he had jerked away, as if her touch had been a hot poker. He called another's name, but this time she heard the anguish, and knew envy or resentment weren't necessary. With persistent and gentle coaxing, he finally succumbed. She held him, and kissed away his tears. Eventually, his tremors eased. He drifted back to sleep, his brow still furrowed.

She was beginning to comprehend Jack's shattered state, and was coming to believe more of the night before's disjointed tale. The simple act of being there for him seemed a comfort, and so in that small way, she helped him to exorcise his demons, and cleanse the poisons of the past.

Now, she woke again. Lying on her side, the angle of the mattress and the weight of the quilt told her that the bed was empty. A noise prompted her to rise on one elbow and found Jack at the window. Sitting much as he had the night before, he had donned his shirt, one shoulder bared by the askew neck. The moonlight banding over him, he sat with his legs bent under him, half-turned from her, talking.

It wasn't unusual to hear Jack talking to himself, but he was uniquely involved in this dialogue, so deeply engrossed in his one-way conversation, he didn't notice her approach, until she touched his shoulder.

He didn't jerk, just looked up apologetically. "I can't recall the last time I slept a night through."

He shrugged, dismissing the thought as inconsequential. He shifted slightly toward her, and his hand came into the light. Kate shrieked and scrambled backwards.

"What is that?"

He blinked, a bit puzzled by her reaction at the grotesquely wrinkled and blackened ball, crowned by a snarl of grizzled hair. "It's Mum."

As best Kate could tell, it was a head, severed and shrunken. Jack held the thing in unutterable tenderness and with a gentleness in his voice that she had never before witnessed.

"It's what?" Incredulous, Kate crept closer.

"Me mum."

There was a glitter of wetness in his lashes as he looked up, raising his hand that she might see better. Bringing the thing into the moon's bluish light didn't help matters, only adding to the freakishness of the hideously contorted features.

She swallowed down a gorge of bile, her finger quaking as she pointed. "You mean that…is… was…?" She gave Jack a cautious look, thinking perhaps his dementia was worse than she had thought, or that he was dreaming… or she was.

"Aye." Jack lovingly stroked the hair of the grotesqueness cradled in his palm. "When she passed, Ol' Teague said he could never live without her." A wistful crooked smile grew. "Never took the old, barnacled bastard to have been such a romantic, but there it 'tis.

"I ran off, hid for two days after she…" His face clouded, darkened by recollections, a boy, who had lived horrors, now looking back from the safety of time. "When I came back, they were gone. A month or so later, he came back…" He choked off his words, struggling to maintain the nonchalance. "With… her."

Once sufficiently recovered, he haltingly continued.

"So ever since then, she has been with him, hanging from his belt, at his side, as it were. He spoke to her, as if she were still there, expecting her to answer. Who's to know? Maybe she did. They always did say she had the sight, could hear the auld ones and all, so…" He lifted a bare shoulder and let it drop. "Who's to know?"

Kate's horror was diminished by the affection that soften Jack's eyes as he gently traced the creased, exaggerated features. The Highlands were often considered a barbaric place, and in many ways it was, its isolated people steeped in a staggering mixture of superstition, lore, ritual and even witchcraft. But amid all that, she had never witnessed anything so bizarre… and revolting.

"What…?" Kate gulped. At one point in time, she had met women that had known Jack's mother, and she strained to recall a name. "What was she called?"

"Sarah," he said with tender reverence.

"It's… it's a lovely name," Kate offered, at a loss as to what else to say. She crossed her arms over her chest, taken by an inexplicable was self-conscious at being naked. She wished that Jack hadn't been wearing his shirt, so that she might have something to cover up in. He was so sincere in wishing Kate to meet his mother, she felt obligated to step closer.

"So, how…did you come to have…it…her?" Kate queried, still unable to meet the cruelly stitched face full on.

"Old bastard claimed she had said that she was tired of him. He probably had swived one too many of his whores, and she caught him. Anyway, he gave her over to me, said for me to give her the decent burial that I always wanted her to have."

He looked up, pleading. "Would you consider coming with me… to help…?"

Never had she seen Jack so humble; no one with any shred of heart or decency could have refused.

"Certainly." She hoped the quaver in her voice wasn't too noticeable; if it was, Jack didn't show it. For the first time, she wished for a bit of his adroit evasiveness. "I suppose we could find several who would be willing to attend your mother's… final resting place."

"No." It was a bare whisper, after the briefest of considerations. "I'd prefer just us—you and me. Mum would have liked you. If you would agree, I would be grateful."

Too human not to feel a stab of sympathy, but too ludicrously odd to be real, Kate tentatively studied the face. She squinted; trying to look past the freakish distortions, to see what might have been there before, if there were any hints of the straight nose, or high cheekbones or luminous brown eyes. Not surprisingly, she only found herself nose to nose with a shriveled, dark caricature of a human being.

There was a presence about the contorted features; she couldn't help but feel a ghost, an essence of something—someone—that had once been. She caught herself almost saying, "Hello."

Jack set the head down with lovesome care, nestling it amid the scraps of cloth on the small worktable in the corner, and they went back to bed, but Kate found sleeping with Mum didn't come easy.

**The** next morning, Jack woke exceptionally bright-eyed, brightening even further with an idea.

"I want to squire you about, with you on me arm, and make everyone green with envy. Marguerite tells me there is a shop filled to the rooftrees with all the fineries a lady could possibly require. I plan to take you there, and see how big of a smile we can put on that shop owner's face. Hell, I'll call in the crew, if I have to, just to help carry it all!" he declared with a magnanimous swipe of his hand.

Kate glanced around the breakfast table, across the platters of steaming sausages, eggs, breads, fish and fruits. Like anything else not foremost in his mind, Jack apparently could ignore a table lined with half-clad women, in everything from wrappers to silken shifts, with the same amount of ease as anything else. Another voice reminded her that ability could well have come from well-practiced experience, but she quickly batted that thought away.

With enough frequency to be annoying, some of the women looked at Jack seated at her elbow, with more admiration that what Kate found comfortable. There were veiled looks from Analise and Camille, and the not-so veiled ones from Severine and Clarise, but never once—so far, she was quick to qualify—had she caught the remotest hint of him returning the sentiment. Some of the women had openly doubted her wisdom in waiting for him, even mockingly so, at times. He had only been there two days, but so far, he had proven her right, their resent-laden looks proof of that.

Never one to be inconvenienced by food, Jack chatted and quipped, while industriously spreading butter and honey on rolls, and stabbing food for Kate from the plates. Snagging the coffee pot, he slid her a dark-framed glance and winked as he filled her cup, at the same time making ribald additions to the morning conversation. Intently bent as he listened to Severine at the end of the table, his foot inched its way along Kate's. His toe finally hooked around her ankle, and his foot flexed, in a small, private message.

His suggestion of shopping sent her spirits soaring, not necessarily by the allure of buying things, but by the thought of leaving the house, and having Jack to herself. Over the duration of the last year, she had rarely ventured from the houses boundaries, and eagerly made ready for the trip.

Once on the street, Jack did as he proposed, carrying her on his arm as if she were royalty. They made their way up from the docks, pausing frequently as Jack stopped to greet and chat with acquaintances. To some he introduced her, and to others he made a point of not. She took no offense; Jack had a method to everything. They went past the alehouses and grog shops, coopers and craftsman, merchant offices, brothels and parlors. The raucousness of vendors and hawkers with their pushcarts, gave way to dignified and sedate, the colorfulness of the characters in the streets yielding to a serene world of where color was found only in the way of dresses and frocks, satin and silks, and gaily beribboned bonnets and parasols.

"That's what you need! A parasol!" Jack declared, with an elaborate wave, inspired by a particularly ornate one passed. "You need to protect that fair skin," he pressed, unperturbed by Kate's dismissive snort.

Jack strolled those streets with the same air of belonging as he had the docks, blithely ignoring the looks from passers-by that ranged from puzzled to outright shock at his appearance.

They came to a halt in front of a shop window. Peeking through the glass, Jack exuberantly pointed out the items on display, freshly imported from across the Atlantic, as advertised.

"Well, well! The strumpet has finally crawled out of her hole."

The voice drew Kate up sharp, and she wheeled around only to come directly into Simon Doncker's face, the cloying sweet smell bringing an onslaught of memories. His eyes moved from hers to somewhere over her shoulder. A flicker of startled recognition was all solid indications that Jack had come up behind her. His hand came to rest, light but firm, at the small of her back.

"Jack Sparrow!" There was no pleasure in Doncker's voice.

"Simon… Dungeon… no, Bunghole… no, Dungball… no…" Jack snapped his fingers, with a final decision. "Doncker!"

The merchantman's fair features flushed, but his tone remained even. "I heard you were dead."

"Vast exaggerations," Jack dismissed with a casual flip of his hand, belying the tension in his arm.

Doncker's grey eye's swiveled back to Kate. "I can't say I admire your tastes. He must pay better than I, which is a tragedy, because I was willing to pay a sizeable sum—by most whore standards. Wallowing in the alleys must be appealing," he added with a disdainful glance in Jack's direction.

"The lady prefers to be addressed as one," Jack said in a low rumble.

"When I see one, I will," was Doncker's contempt-ridden response.

Jack lunched forward, the impact knocking the larger man back a few steps, before Kate could stop him with a hand on his arm.

"He's not worth it, Jack."

Doncker looked from Jack to Kate and back. "Correction: _she's_ not worth it. You've no idea the problems that can befall a soul in this town," he said, with unabated menace.

With a final, punctuating glare, he turned and stalked away. Jack stood watching the man's rigid back and exaggeratedly confident step, and at some length, chuckled.

"That strut should come a little easier," Jack said, bearing a crooked grin. The heavy clank of a coin purse sounded from inside his coat. "He's walking considerably lighter… now."

"Will he know where that went?"

Jack lifted a speculative brow and smiled. "If he doesn't, he's a fool."

"That could cause trouble," she said uneasily. She was all too familiar with the fact that Doncker wasn't a man to be trifled with.

He broke into a glittering grin. "One can only hope."

In sudden turn of mood, Jack's fingers dug into Kate's arm as he steered her back toward Marguerite's, ducking and dodging through the foot traffic, with uncharacteristic jerkiness. At one point, she chanced a look at him, stony-eyed and jaw set, and disarmingly mum.

Jack hadn't asked, but he obviously had come to the conclusion that there had been some kind of an incident between her and Doncker. The thought occurred to her that perhaps he blamed her. Surely, he couldn't possibly think that she would have intentionally encouraged Doncker in some way? To her, it seemed impossible, and yet in Jack's uneven state of recent, it was difficult to forecast how he might interpret things.

Kate bit back several remarks, as she waited for her heart to slow from its trip-hammer rate it had been beating from the moment she saw Doncker's face. Jack was there; she was safe, now. But she couldn't quench the fears of what might happen next.

Granted, it was Jack's fault for having left her, putting her in harm's way in the first place. Her fear was that Jack would see it exactly that way, and would take responsibility too far. The last thing she wanted—her greatest fear—was that Jack would go off on some half-crazed vision of retribution. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have been even a remote consideration, but currently nothing was normal.

She hadn't asked to be left behind, and a certain part of her wasn't sorry for Jack to learn of what had happened. Perhaps it might serve as a bit of a lesson, and he would be more inclined toward thinking twice before leaving her again.

All in all, she had worked herself into a state, by the time they came to the kitchens of the brothel. It wasn't until they had threaded through there, and were in the hall, that Jack pulled her around to face him.

"What did he do?" There was no doubt was to the "whom" to which he was referring, and what he was implying.

Kate ducked her head, looking away, her first instinct being the less said the better. "Nothing."

Jack seized her by the arms and shook her in gentle supplication, knocking her hair loose from its ribbon. "Did he lay hands on you? Tell me what he did!"

She yelped when his fingers dug deeper than he intended and he let go.

"Not as much as he wanted!" she cried. Batting the hair from her face, she retreated several steps. "Don't you dare go near him!"

Seething, she pushed past him and sped down the hall.

**Jack** stood in the hallway, listening to Kate's agitated steps fade down the hallway. Feeling the weight of someone staring, he turned to find he was at dining room the doorway. Inside, Marguerite sat at the end of the table, drinking tea. He gave her a speculative look; one rarely had to wait long to learn what was on her mind.

"I've done what I could to protect her," she said, thoughtfully, as he went in and sat. "Doncker sends someone around at least once a month, sometimes more often; one of his strong arms, the authorities, someone, trying to make trouble."

Jack leaned back on the bench, and crossed his arms. "You've never done a thing out of the raw goodness of your heart."

Marguerite smiled, unfazed. "I won't deny I had hoped that eventually Kate would tire of waiting. I could have made a lot of money with her," she sighed wistfully. "She has that something that makes men want her."

"Don't I know it!" sighed Jack dryly.

She slid him a measured grey look. "I'll have to admit, you showing up made a shambles of those plans."

"No, you wouldn't have made a shilling with her," Jack chuckled softly. "Obviously, you don't know her; there's a spirit there that would never cave," he said, glancing longingly over his shoulder toward the door. "I should thank you for caring for her. I've never seen her looking better."

It wasn't a lie. Fuller and softer, her bones not so close to the surface, Kate's curves were more alluring than ever. Brushed into obedience, her hair now hung in lustrous coils down her back, and she smelled even better… if that were at all possible.

Marguerite made an unladylike noise in the back of her throat. "Living on a ship—a pirate ship, at that," she qualified, with a scornful look, "isn't conducive for a woman to be at her best."

Her point wasn't lost on him. Food, rest, shelter… a bath; it was amazing what such things could do for a person.

Marguerite held a pregnant pause as she plucked a biscuit from the plate before her, and broke it into pieces.

"She claims Doncker had her dragged into his room, and tried to have his way."

"And?" Jack asked, nodding impassively.

"Doncker claims she followed him, attacked him, when he refused to agree her blackmail demands," she said, looking from under one brow as she fixed her tea.

It was difficult not to laugh, but more important issues were to hand. Marguerite was maneuvering, negotiating, in her own particular style.

"And you're believing which?" he asked, examining his fingernails.

She considered her answer as she stirred, the spoon clinking delicately on the cup. "A long time ago, I learned that the matter of who was right rarely is of any consequence." Marguerite gave a shrug, and a "we'll see" look.

Jack couldn't argue with that. Right or wrong, didn't matter. It was clear enough to anyone that had more sense than a dimwitted rumpot, that Doncker had laid hands on Kate. Even if it had only been a threat, that was enough. Marguerite might be in a position to handle matters at her point of business, but he wasn't without his own resources.

Marguerite paused in mid-sip, to cock her ear toward the sound of the doorbell and voices in the hall. Satisfied that all was well, she finished.

"Sooner or later, Doncker's coin is going to speak louder than mine," Marguerite warned. A shrewd arch of her eyebrows completed her meaning.

There was no secret: Marguerite could be many things, but subtle was never one of them. He had to admit, her ability to be direct without being confrontational was a true asset, well-polished by many years of practice.

"How much do you need?" he asked, with equal levelness.

She sipped her tea, carefully setting down the cup. "How much do you have?"

He hid a smile at the open-faced request. She wasn't being coy or evasive. The level of protection given would be in direct proportion to the size of the payment. Being the business woman that she was, there was little doubt that there would be a certain portion taken for her "efforts"; he considered that the price of doing business. She lived there, hence knew who was who, and had the connections and means to make things happen.

"Enough," Jack finally said. He dug into his pocket, and smugly dropped the leather coin purse squarely before her, the "SD" monogram clearly visible.

Her sharp grey eyes went from it to Jack's face, and then she smiled. "That will go a very long way."

**Kate** stood at the window of her room, when Jack came in. Caught between fuming and breaking into tears, she kept her back turned. There was the shuffle of feet, and then sound of a door softly closing. The ornament at his shoulder tinkled faintly as he moved, and then the soft tapping of his fingers on his belt. He took a breath several times to say something, and then apparently decided against it.

"Didn't this last year count for enough silence?" he asked at length.

A jerk of the shoulder was Kate's only response. She had worked up into a complete state by that the time, all circling around a single emotion: fear. Fear that he would do something in response to Doncker, fear that he would do it because of her, and fear that because of that, he would be injured… or worse.

There was the rustle as Jack shed his baldric and pistol, and then his coat, dropping them in a loose heap on the table. It was a symbolic gesture: he wasn't ready to do battle.

He exhaled through his nose, and moved closer. "You need to realize that I had no choice."

The sudden change of topic caught her off guard, and she turned sufficiently to throw him a questioning look. He took the opportunity to come closer.

"I couldn't take you with me; I had no idea what to expect. It seemed safer here than… there," he finished lamely, with a vague wave of his hand.

Kate hunched a shoulder, and ducked her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well I do." He dropped his hat on the stool next to her. His knee brushed her skirt, but he was careful not to touch her further. "Surely you can't be expecting me to just stand by, while some bastard comes along and…"

"I fought him!" she blurted, her fists balled at her sides. "I fought him, as hard as I could. I fought him off, just like I fought off…" She caught her breath, and bit her lip, having said far more than she had intended.

Jack's face clouded. "Who?"

"No one."

"Who!" he demanded, sharper. She made a half-hearted attempt to pull away when he took her by the arms, making sure this time that he didn't hurt her.

"No one! It's over and it's done. I will not be a part of you running off and…"

"And what?" he asked, intercepting her thought. His fingers stroked her forearms where he held her. "And what?" he asked again, ducking to bring his eyes in line with hers.

She looked up into his tear-blurred image. Chivalrous nobility wasn't one of the first descriptions that came to mind with Jack, but he was a man of this time, no matter how hard he tried not to be. She took a deep breath, in an effort to keep her voice from shaking. "Die over something so…"

"Trivial?" He smiled ruefully when she looked away, meekly nodding. He touched a finger to her chin and brought her to face him again, thumbing a tear from her cheek. "I imagine it didn't seem so trivial at the time, did it?"

It was infuriating that he could read her face so well, that he would know so much without being told. Perhaps he did understand after all what he had left her to, and yet had done it knowing that she could manage.

"Look at it this way: I did die, and now I'm back," he said with a casual gesture.

"I won't be alone again. Don't laugh at me!" Her face heated when he chuckled at her. "I couldn't bear it! If you die, so do I."

"No you won't," he said, with irritating calmness. He cupped her face, his fingers stroking her ear. "You'd go to Thomas, and you'd live on. Besides, you'll never be alone, because I shan't be going anywhere. If it ever should come to pass, just look around, darling. I'll be right there."

His eyes darkening, his jaw flexed. "Mark me well, darling, I _will_ keep you safe," he said, in quiet determination. He drew her closer, one arm hooking her waist as his hand followed the slope of her neck. "And any buggering bastard that has the brass balls to threaten you will pay—dearly."

Jack knew how to work his magic, and he was working it then. Mentally, she wanted nothing more than to be furious with him; her traitorous body wanted something much more.

"Jack, I'm trying to be angry with you," she said, trying to slither out from under his attentions. The effort was only for form; she already knew to resist was to lose.

"Give it up, darling," he murmured against her cheek. "Better men than you have tried, an impossibility to maintain."

"Tell me you want me." His breath was hot on her neck. "Go ahead, say it. You know you do," he wheedled, his hands adroitly tugging at her laces. "Say it. Say you want me."

A distant rumble of thunder and a freshened breeze lifting the curtain were a harbinger of rain.

"I want you," she finally gasped, when his tongue flicked her ear. It wasn't a lie; she did want him, so badly it hurt, so badly she couldn't utter any more of the dozen or so things she had meant to say.

"I knew it!" He smiled against her neck. "You can't get enough of me."

He kissed her lightly, to make amends. The second one was longer, sealing his pledge. With the third, he took possession, declaring her as his. They stumbled in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing, and tumbled backwards onto the bed.

Jack rolled on top of her and she was ready to open herself to him, his body calling hers. In the midst of that, Kate had the sobering sense that someone was watching. She looked through the curtain of braids and cords that was Jack's hair, and caught the startling sight of two slit eyes, staring. Jack moved his attentions to her neck, blocking her view. A few moments later, she was able to chance another look over his bare shoulder, and caught sight of the crumpled, blackened face in the corner, its expression wholly disapproving.

"Jack." She broke free of his kiss, but was cut off by another. "Jack," she said with more determination, trying to wriggle away, but was rendered speechless when his mouth found her nipple. "Jack!" The sharpness of her plea was not nearly as effective as its volume in his ear, and he recoiled.

"What!"

"Could you please…" she panted. "I mean would you mind… if…?" Her mind raced for a delicate way to broach the subject, she gestured toward the table in the corner. "Must we do this, with it… herwatching?"

He started to object. Rising up on his elbows, he twisted enough to follow her line of sight, and saw the wisdom in her point. He rested his forehead against hers, and heaved a sigh. "There are certain times, when a man prefers not to be under the scrutiny of his elders."

Bare buttocks clenched, he reluctantly rose and padded to the table. Amid soft murmurings of "Sorry, luv," he tenderly scooped up the head, and rearranged it in the folds of his coat. When he turned back to the bed, his face fell, every line of his body etched with disappointment, at the sight of Kate sitting up.

"You have the look of a woman thinking."

"Is there something wrong with that?" Another rumble of thunder might have prevented him from hearing her.

With a pained grunt, he lifted the sheet and slid in next to her. "It's been my experience that thinking and bedding are not necessarily best performed at the same time."

Keeping a measured distance, he settled back against the pillow. "Let's have it," he declared, with a suffering lilt, tidily smoothing the sheet.

"I've been thinking…" He made a face, but she pressed on. "I want to ask for something."

Jack sobered at that. "Anything you want, darling, you know that. In the time I've known you, I could count on one hand the number of times you've asked for something, and still have fingers enough left to drink me rum." His calm demeanor belied the tension in his hands as he folded them, meeting her gaze with that wide-eyed, maddeningly innocent one of his.

Kate chewed the inside of her mouth, considering her words carefully. "I want time." She had been thinking about this since his return, and now, finally putting it into words, it sounded so petty and juvenile. She had just spent a year waiting; surely time wasn't an unreasonable request.

She ventured a look, to see his reaction. He only nodded impassively.

"Time comes in infinite forms," he said, lifting one brow under the edge of his scarf. "There's the kind that…"

"I want time with you," she interrupted, not of a mind to be distracted. "I've always had to share you, in what little snatches we could find. I want time, just with you, not as captain, or pirate, or some great legend… just you."

He smiled at that, with not a little smugness. "That is an entire coincidence, since I just spent considerable effort negotiating that very thing." He laced his fingers complacently across his stomach. "How much?"

How much would be too much? For Jack, negotiations were a process of asking for the moon, and the gradually spiraling back to what he had sought in the first place.

"Forever?"

She winced. She hadn't intended to use that word, and yet it was exactly what she had been thinking. It was easily a word that could scare him off. But then, this was Jack; sometimes ten minutes appeared to be a lifetime to him.

Jack jerked, but then he assumed a more serious demeanor. "I passed up the opportunity for eternity not that long ago." Smiling weakly, he sobered. "How about a week… here?"

Her chest tightened; he obviously thought his suggestion to be a magnanimous gesture. Her hopes were beginning to appear doomed. It was silly to think that anyone could confine him for long. The tattoo over his heart spoke volumes: "Freedom" emblazoned on the banner over a ship.

She pressed the flat of her hand over it, as if that might help erase the reality, and hold him in place. "That's not the same thing."

"But it's more than we've ever had. It's a start, isn't it?" He finished with one of his smiles meant to charm.

"I wanted you. A week in a brothel is not exactly the way to get your undivided attention," she pointed out with asperity.

"Ah, but look." He held up the sheet, to proudly display a burgeoning erection. "See that? Which way is it pointing?"

It wasn't easy to keep from laughing; Kate turned her head, hiding behind a fall of her hair. "Jack, it's not a compass. It always points that way when it's doing… that."

"That's where you're wrong, luv," he scolded gently, cocking an admonishing eye. "You haven't been paying attention. It goes down, and side to side," he said, illustrating with a finger, "all the time. But the moment you're about…" His finger went straight up, rigid. He spread his arms and lewdly rolled his eyes. "I'm all yours."

She gave him a narrow look.

"You resist, because you know I'm right," he said, bearing a victorious smile. "We can move to the carriage house or the hog sty, for all I care. You think it's been any easier on me? If you're away from me, I've been away from you. So you see, darling, suffering all around."

His face fell, his mirth quickly fading. "Why are you smiling?"

She turned her head, waving a hand in an attempt to dismiss his concerns. "I can't help, but glean a bit of pleasure from knowing you've been suffering, too."

"Sadistic, I'll warrant, but true," he agreed, nestling his head back into the pillow. In the next instant, he was able to summon a credible pout, batting his lashes. "Nothing left now, but to ease me pain."

It was another one of those moments, a reminder of how quickly Jack could maneuver any conversation into what he wished to discuss. "How did this suddenly become all about you?"

His tortured look faded into a crooked grin. "Funny how it works that way, isn't it? Tell me where you want me, Kitty. I'm yours to have, and to do with as you wish."

"Good heavens," she groaned, touching her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Did I ask for a whole week of this?"

"Longer, if I recall. Forever, I believe was your choice of words." His eyes danced with tease.

"I can see where a week could only seem like forever." She sighed, looking up into the walnut-colored gaze, and helplessly shook her head. "What am I going to do with you?"

Waggling his brows, Jack lifted the sheet, and gave a smile touched with more gold than just his teeth. "Care for suggestions?"

**Rainy** afternoons weren't uncommon in the Caribbean, especially for particular season. For any inconveniences that the deluges might cause, they were exceptionally conducive to long, lazy times in bed.

The sound of the rain on the roof was hypnotic, rattling the palm fronds, the tree frogs singing in grateful approval. The storm had robbed the atmosphere of its will to stir, the fronds hanging limp in the stillness. The slam of the front door came up from the house's hallway, followed by feet stomping, and the high-pitched ring of Marguerite's greeting the newly-arrived customers.

The air in her room was still, and heavy with moisture. Kate blotted the sweat from the side of her face. She carefully sat up, turning slightly to look at Jack lying next to her. He was asleep, exhausted. He had been particularly exuberant in his love-making, as if he were trying to make up for lost time. It was a rare opportunity to see him sleeping. The sheet tangled at his feet, one arm was extended, where her head had rested, the other tucked under the pillow at his head, his soft, throaty rasps could be heard in spite of the rain.

"_I will keep you safe."_

She had heard that once before, from a serious-faced young Highlander, standing at her bedside. It hadn't been a matter of a grandiose promise. The pledge had been made by a warrior; his body bearing the scars of the seriousness brought by being a good man.

Well, here laid another noble man, doing everything he could to deflect the image of being bound by gallantry, and yet bound by the same desires as the next man: defend what was his.

Scarred and battered, it wasn't an idle pledge for Jack, either. He, possibly more than her young Scottish knight, knew what that meant, the price that could be exacted, and yet he had made it willingly, without prompting or coercion.

She smiled. It would seem the she and Jack were caught in one of those a mythological struggles: he was willing to do anything to keep her safe, and she was willing to go to any lengths to be with him.

Needing to touch him in some way, she kissed the pad of her finger and touched it to his face. He stirred, his mouth curled up. Blindly groping, his hand found hers, and he pulled her back down to him. Heaving a complacent sigh, he curled on his side around her, and let the rain wash them back to sleep.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty-six: Scratched Surfaces**

**That** night, Kate dreamed one of those nondescript dreams that rambled in spiraling circles to nowhere, with no beginning and no end. In a sense, the lack of detail in the faces was a welcomed relief to the months of black holes and wrenching terrors she had endured, and was satisfied with mindlessly riding along.

A sudden pitch, and a sense of being heedlessly tossed aside, dissolved that world. Like a drowning soul, she swam upward from the murky dim, and broke the surface of reality of Jack swearing as he lurched out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she rolled in time to see him jerk on his breeches, seize his pistol and race out the door.

"Jack?"

He was already out of hearing. Shielding her eyes from the relative blaze of the lights in the hall, Kate struggled to pull further from the tarry depths of slumber, caught between the enticement of a warm bed, and the need to know where he had gone.

A woman's shriek yanked her fully awake. Emanating from down the hall, there were more screams, Jack's graveled voice audible amid male shouting. There were the sounds of a scuffle, feminine shrieks, and then a pistol shot, closely followed by a second.

"Oh, God, no!" she cried leaping out of bed. "Jack! No, Jack!"

In one of those strange flashes of clarity one has in a time of emergency, she snatched Jack's shirt from the floor and tossed it on as she raced to the hallway. She heard the sound of someone running toward her. With no chance to stop, she was hit by another body. The collision knocked her sideways, sending her skidding across the floor, headlong into the stair banister. Sprawled, her legs tangled with those of her inadvertent aggressor. In a whirling haze of black spots and ringing ears, she heard the rhythmic thuds of a body tumbling down the stairs.

Groping blindly, she found the banister and hauled up to her feet. "Jack!"

Her instinct was to find Jack was to follow the crowd. The half-clad or naked men and women were an arrow, pointing the way. She stumbled down the hall, pressing her way between through the gathering crowd; the center of focus seemed to be Clarice's room at the hallway's end. Frantic, Kate wedged past, and finally broke free.

The room was a shambles, the furniture tumbled and broken, shards of glass and broken mirror scattered across the floor. Clarice stood in the corner, wide-eyed and shaking. One eye already swelling closed, her face was a tear-striped mess of powder and pink flesh. Hair in a snarl, her breast and arms were streaked with the blood dripping from her nose and mouth.

She looked from the floor to Kate, her chin wobbling. "I'm sorry! He came… and I… Oh, Kate! I'm so sorry!"

Kate followed Clarice's gaze to Jack's crumpled form face down. Too scared to breathe, and too breathless to cry, she fell on her knees next to him.

His limbs flung at rakish angles, Jack looked like a ragdoll carelessly dropped in the floor. Blood was already pooling at his side, satiny bright on the rough boards of the floor. There was no concern as to whether or not he was alive; the stream of black oaths—distorted as they were from his face pressed against the floor—was testimony enough.

"I'm fine. I'm fine!" Growling, he feebly waved away those over him.

Kate sagged in relief. Ignoring his protests, she attempted to examine him with scrabbling fingers. He was bleeding badly, but on the floor made it difficult to know for sure.

"Get him up."

"Have a care," Clarice choked, as two men stooped to follow Kate's directive. "The sod kicked him." Her testimony was born out by a reddened abrasion on Jack's side, already showing signs of bruising.

Nodding grimly, Gaubert, having just arrived, and two others hoisted Jack with considerably less care than Kate had hoped, and roughly deposited him on the bed. Jack couldn't hold back a yelp at the initial movement, but bit off any further outbursts.

"Don't be soiling that mattress," warned Clarice. "Marguerite will have our heads for sure!"

Gaubert dutifully pulled a towel from under the overturned washstand and passed it to Kate. A calm befell her as she checked Jack for damage, relieved that her hands moved with such surety. Just above the crest of his hip, the bullet's entrance was a finger-sized hole, its blackened edges indicating that it had been fired at point blank range.

Against a backdrop of Clarice's sobbing, Analise and Severine trying to give comfort, Kate lifted Jack carefully to sufficiently slip the towel under him, and peek at his back. The bleeding and damage was much worse there, with an area roughly half the size of her palm virtually gone, the edges of his skin resembling a torn shirt. With the movement rose a cloud of perfume from the bed, mingling with the coppery tang of blood, and rice powder.

"It went all the way through," Kate reported, relaxing a fraction.

Jack's head moved in a bare acknowledgment of the significance of that: he would be saved the agony of having the bullet dug out. It also meant a likelihood of fewer bits of fabric and other debris lingering in the wound, which hopefully would mean less probability of suppuration.

"I think the brute broke me ribs," Jack said with some hesitation. Risking an experimental probe, he sucked in sharply and nodded grimly. "Aye. I know that feeling well enough."

"As does being shot." Kate pointedly eyed the two scars on his chest.

Closing his eyes, he bit back another acid oath. "Evidence enough that one can and does survive, luv," was his breathy response.

Marguerite shoved her way into the room, with the expertise of someone who had seen many such disturbances. Her authoritative voice bringing everyone to attention, she whooshed them out. With no one dead, the excitement was ebbing anyway. Quickly losing interest, the clientele readily left to resume their earlier interests, the room falling quiet to just the few.

Marguerite critically surveyed the room, and then Clarice, still weeping in Severine's arms. "You won't be fit for business for several days." Her voice wasn't completely void of compassion.

She bent over Jack to give him a cursory inspection. "I suppose I should be grateful to you for stopping the bastard, before he did much more damage."

Jack's smile was cut off by a stab of pain. The madam pragmatically looked around the room, her eyes going to the red pool in the floor, and the footprints leading away.

"No sense in keeping him here. I'm sure he'll be much more comfortable in your room," she said to Kate with a dry edge. "Then Minnie can start cleaning up."

A sash from a wrapper was taken to secure the towel at Jack's side, tied as gently as could be managed with such impromptu means. Gaubert and another man hoisted Jack up, slinging his arms over their shoulders, and half-walked, half-dragged him down the hall to Kate's room. By the time Jack was deposited on their bed, he had broken into a sweat and had turned an alarming shade of white.

Kate and Marguerite wasted no time in setting to their task at hand. Lying flat was far too agonizing for his ribs, and it took a bit of maneuvering to find him a comfortable position. After that, the first order of business was to pull off his breeches.

"Ladies! Please!" he wheezed, flailing weakly in protest. "One at a time. No need to rush. There's plenty to go 'round."

"You'd better be delirious," Kate warned without anger, trying to take it as a good sign that Jack could still manage lewd jokes.

Novella, the downstairs servant, appeared bearing a ewer of water laced with lemon balm, sponges, and lint for dressings. Filling the basin, she set it on the stool at the side of the bed. Straightening, she frowned at the bruise blooming over the arch of Jack's side.

"Gonna have to strap them," she observed, watching each breath catch. "You should put a knife under the bed, to help cut the pain. And he should be bled."

Kate suppressed a shudder, and bit back a retort. Contrary to popular opinion, she found the practice of bleeding both barbaric and ghoulish. She would fight that with her last breath.

Without further comment, Chloe left, reappearing shortly with additional strips of cloth.

During the Rising, the devastating clash between the Highland clans and the King's army, she had tended such wounds more times than she cared to think. She wouldn't allow herself to consider the possible complications or consequences. She tried to be gentle, but cleaning a wound was uncomfortable business regardless. Lying half-rolled away on his side and a grim set to his jaw, Jack took it stalwartly. The angle made it difficult to flush the wound as well as she might have preferred. He tried to accommodate by shifting his position, but he was quickly weakening.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Kate scolded, sharper than she had intended. It was asked not so much for an answer, but as a distraction.

"I heard a fair lady in distress, I suppose," he said, peering over his shoulder, managing to smile between pained grunts.

"Idiot," was all she could say.

She fought back the tears that welled behind her eyes. The sharp clean scent of the lemon balm in the water she was using to lave the wound helped some, but not enough. She couldn't cry now; that would have to wait. Black spots began to swim in her tunneling vision, sounds growing distant and hollow.

_You can faint all you want, after._

Her hands began to shake, the sponge slipping from fingers suddenly gone numb. Jack's mouth was moving, but hearing only faint murmurs, she thought that he was weakening.

"Kate? Kate?"

Urgent faces were thrust before her, and there was a dull slapping on her wrists. A firm hand at the back of her head steadied it as a glass was pressed to her lips, and she sputtered and coughed, choking down the rum. When her head cleared, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, haphazardly propped against the bedpost. Twisting around, Jack strained to see her, his brow furrowed with worry.

"… you… and then… go… down," was all she heard.

She smiled unsteadily, and shook her head. "No, I'll be fine."

"No, luv." Jack was still sweating, a dark dome marking the forehead area of his scarf. "You look bloody awful."

She looked down and saw splatters of blood on the pillow next to his head. "You're head," she cried, reaching for him. "You've been hit in the head."

Jack protested, weakly flailing to ward her off.

"No, no, _mon cher,_ it's not him," said Marguerite evenly, easing Kate back. "It's you. You're bleeding."

Probing her own head, Kate found a sticky mess at the crown, wincing when she found the split skin, only then recalling going headlong into the banister earlier. Once again, the room began to move, but a steadying hand and a wet cloth pressed to her forehead helped her stabilize. Jack's discomfort as the wound was packed drew her attention. She struggled to sit up, but he urged her back down with a surprisingly firm grip on her arm. Partially reclined, she was virtually eye to eye with him.

With some effort, he smiled crookedly. "I always perform better when there's a bonnie lass in me bed."

Marguerite inadvertently jarred him. Paling under his tan, he ground out an oath between his teeth.

"You always were the best curser that ever crossed my threshold," Marguerite said with considerable admiration. "The Good Lord is going to have plenty to say to you, when you finally arrive."

Jack gave a tight-lipped grin. "No worries there, darling. That is a meeting that shall never take place. I'll never be admitted past the front gate."

Chloe set to tending Kate's head, Marguerite finishing the bandaging. Kate tried to keep a brave face. In the face of what Jack was suffering, she felt foolish, but still couldn't help flinching. Jack saw it, and took her hand.

Marguerite moved to strapping Jack's ribs next. It was impossible to be gentle, the patient necessarily having to sit up. It tore at Kate to have to sit and watch helplessly. Every voice, every bone screamed for her to do something, and yet the least hint of movement brought on a renewed wave of dizziness. Falling out in the floor would be even less helpful. So she did the only thing she could, and held on to his hand. Holding each other with their gazes, they shared their strength.

"That was one of Doncker's men," Marguerite announced conversationally as she worked.

Jack pulled his attention from Kate, frowning. "Sent here for her?"

"Or you," Marguerite replied evenly.

It was a staggering thought that Kate hadn't considered, but Jack and Marguerite were ahead of her, thinking that motivation in Clarice's beating had been a matter of mistaken identity. It wasn't an unlikely confusion; Jack had been misled easily enough. The attacker could have been using Kate—or who he thought was Kate—to bait Jack into coming to her rescue. Or he could have been just another brutal beast that had come to the house the same as everyone else.

"All things considered, does it matter?" Jack's his line of thinking apparently paralleled Kate's.

Intent on her task, Marguerite simply lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "Only when it comes to the question of what you want done with him." She glanced at Kate and gave a tight smile. "You're lady tackled him in the hallway; sent him head first down the stairs."

"Nice shot, luv!" Jack declared with admiration.

"I had no idea who he was," Kate was quick to explain. "He just ran into me as I… "

"Ah-ah!" Jack wagged an admonishing finger. "A fortuitous provision of Fate is what it is, and I learned long ago, to never to pass those by."

"Shouldn't someone just ask him what he was doing here?" Kate asked.

Jack and Marguerite made the same derisive noise in unison. "He'll just lie, darling," he said with a tempered roll of his eyes."

"Gaubert has him in the carriage house, only a little worse for the wear," Marguerite mused.

"I can imagine that wasn't a gentle journey." Jack's wince stemmed from a memory rather than from injuries.

The older woman and Jack exchanged knowing looks. It was easy to see the history between the two, one that Kate would never know, another glaring example of how much of his life she had never seen, and would probably never know.

"Gaubert does what is necessary, when it is necessary," Marguerite announced with reserved pride then gave Jack a pointed look. "What would you deem necessary?"

"I have full confidence in your benevolent Goliath's ability to creatively exact his justice."

A brow arched over a curious grey eye. "You're not interested?" Her tone was a mixture of having expected such a reaction from Jack, and a little annoyed at his reticence.

Jack raised his arms slightly in display, his mouth screwed by the discomfort brought on by that small gesture. "I'm in no condition to perform anything much past the chamber pot and the rum bottle, and not necessarily in that order. I consider the matter to be in the eloquently capable hands of His Pugnaciousness. Anything I have to say, will be to Doncker, not one of his mutton-fisted minions," he ended heatedly.

He gave Marguerite a dark look when tied the binding's final knot, declaring the job finished. "I can't breathe!"

"Good!" Marguerite said, patting his shoulder. "That means you'll lie quiet. I rather find that thought rather appealing… for once."

Kate experimentally rose as a demonstration to everyone that she wouldn't pass out. Her head throbbed horribly, but the room remained steady. Still, she moved cautiously, bending only when absolutely necessary. Marguerite and Chloe bid them goodnight, and the tiny room fell quiet.

The ordeal of finding him a comfortable position after Marguerite had finished had left Jack sweating, beads of it dotting the bridge of his nose and trailing in rivulets in the creases of his skin.

"Would you mind, luv?" he asked hopefully, gesturing with his chin toward the bottle of rum left on the bed stand.

He had stoutly refused laudanum or poppy syrup, claiming he preferred the pain over the nightmares brought on by either. Judging from the last few nights, Kate couldn't argue, and poured a small bit of rum in a glass.

"You can't drink from the bottle; I don't want you moving," was her response to his disappointed scowl at the glass.

Her explanation seemed to placate him. Quaffing it down, he lifted the glass, hoping for another, his expression dissolving into utter dejection, when she took it and set it on the bedstand. Grumbling an unintelligible objection, he leaned back, and waited for the rum to take effect.

Kate quietly pulled the stool to the bedside and sat. Jack's hand lay on the bed next to his leg, and she picked it up, lacing her fingers through his. His eyes remained closed, but a corner of his mouth curled up. His grip was still warm and strong, and she took encouragement from that.

At length, his nose twitched; his lip lifting in displeasure. "I smell like a bloody whore."

The lingering smell of Clarice's perfume was quite apparent. "Shh. Don't say that too loudly."

"Bloody, ha!" he quipped. One eye opened suspicious slit. "You're loving this."

He fell quiet again then his eyes snapped open, his body tensing. "Are you all right, darling?" The vertical furrow between his brows deepened, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded and squeezed his hand. "What possessed you to go running off to another room with a pistol?" she asked quietly, tracing his knuckles with her thumb.

He shifted his gaze to the ceiling and shrugged. "Seemed like the thing to do, I guess. I can't abide a woman being mistreated."

"That damned good heart of yours, nearly go you killed."

He flinched, shying from her observation, a sure sign of her accuracy. Lowering his lashes, he gave a tight-lipped smile. "More times than you care to think."

A good man, living in a very bad world; once again gallantry and nobility had reared their ugly heads, as entirely incongruous as they might be to the world in which he lived, and the image he strove to maintain. It would seem her worries of his injury while seeking revenge on her behalf were wasted effort. As much as Jack denied it, doing the right thing was as natural to him as breathing.

He jerked an irritated shoulder, and mussed his head in the pillow, his fingers working between hers. He fell quiet, glancing toward the corner, where his mother's head rested, and then turned to stare out the window. "Saw Mum suffer too many times at the hands of those drunken sods."

He looked up, his dark eyes glinting with mirth in the candlelight. "Can't see the point in hitting a woman, when she can be so ever much more pleasurable when she's smiling."

"And you know how to make them do that, don't you?" she mused. Her cheeks heated at the number of times Jack had done that very thing, and she looked away, inexplicably embarrassed at being embarrassed. Seeing that, Jack took it as worry on her part, and he sobered further, his hand tightening around hers.

"I swear, Kitty, I'll never hurt you." His voice quavered with conviction.

His sincerity touched her and she bent to gently kiss his cheek. "I know that. I've never been afraid of you, although," she qualified, lightening, "there were those first few minutes, when you first pulled me out of the water."

They both smiled at their memories if that day that seemed so long ago.

Jack looked pensively down at their interlocked hands, seeing something far past. "It's not right, the wrongs you've suffered."

"Most of which were long before I met you," she put in judiciously. "The same could be said for you."

He jerked at that thought; clearly it was a point he had never considered, and immediately dismissed it. "Trifles. Most of it was just a matter of timing. Had I been somewhere else, it never would have happened."

His eye settled on his forearm, and the brand that marked it then shifted to her lace-bound wrist. "A few things I do wish could be different, but the world doesn't run in reverse, does it?"

"Another inch and you'd be dead." It was what she had been thinking since she had found him in the floor, and was relieved that he was in a condition that she was able to now point that out.

His spirits rose sufficiently to flash a dazzling smile. "Another inch the other way and I'd not be injured, and I'd be able to make much better use of this bed."

The day and its events began to weigh heavily, dragging Jack's lids lower. He patted the mattress invitingly. "C'mon, luv, you look like you're ready to fall over." She hesitated and he made an exasperated sound, rolling his eyes. "I promise I shan't molest you until morning."

"Well, if that's the best you can offer, I'll sleep in the chair," she countered, already moving around the bed.

She lowered herself carefully next to him. He winced, but maintained a calm face until she was situated, pressing against him as much as she dared, and laid her head on the pillow at his shoulder.

She closed her eyes, but was aware of his movements. The shaking that had befallen her earlier started again, with the knowledge of how close she had come to losing him, and with the further thought that he wasn't yet out of danger. She tried to control the quaking, fearing that she might disturb him, but he was beyond noticing. She felt the rise and fall of his breathing slow, becoming more rhythmic, in spite of the occasional catch. Then he went lax, his hand, where it rested on her leg, going heavy. He was asleep.

Only then did she allow the same to befall her.

**The** next morning, a brief tapping at the door roused them both. With barely time to reply, Marguerite burst into the room with Minnie in tow, bearing ewers of water, towels, ointments and bandages. She drew up at the bedside to scrutinize Jack.

"Well, I'd say you look considerably better than you did last night." She shifted her attention to Kate. "How is your head?"

"Better," Kate replied, rubbing one eye sleepily.

Marguerite's sharp grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. "No headaches?"

"Not to speak of," Kate said.

Jack shot Kate a dark look; she was going to have to learn to lie better than that. Eyes puffed and flinching at every sound, any fool could see that she was hurting.

"You should be lying quiet, you know," Marguerite instructed Kate, while directing Minnie with a whisk of her hand. "Head injuries aren't to be fooled with. I thought I'd come change bandages, maybe wash you up a little," Marguerite said sternly to Jack then swiveled her attention on Kate. "Chloe's pouring a bath for you now."

"But, I..." Kate sputtered in protest.

Jack shook his head. Surely by now, Kate knew Marguerite well enough to know that she was going to have to put up a stronger argument than that in order to prevail.

"I can see the dried blood in your hair from here. Shoo!" the madame retorted with another abrupt gesture. "I've been caring for men, in some way or another, since before you were a glimmer in your father's eye. I know how much you enjoy it, so go soak for a bit, and I'll take care of this bit of wreckage."

Jack shifted uneasily. He and Marguerite had a familiarity that didn't bear examining, but she was by no means the one he wanted washing anything of his, assuming, of course, that there was anything of his that needed washing in the first place.

Ushered rather unceremoniously out the door, Kate reluctantly left with a warning not to return, until she had soaked for no less than an hour.

"She would have been quite an addition," sighed Marguerite, with regret-laden admiration, her fingers already tugging at his bandages. "I could have made a lot of money with her. Where did you ever find her?" Her eyes steady on her task, she glanced up.

"Pulled her out of the water," was Jack's simple response. He smiled, recalling the day, the moment with vivid clarity. Never in all his days had meeting one person have such an impact on his life.

"A mermaid, then?" she mused.

"Not exactly," he sighed. "More a fortuitous gift."

How did one ever begin to describe that day? It had begun no differently than two score years of others. How was he to have known that, from that day on, everything would be in a reference of either before he had met her, or after, his life coming to pivot around that single axis?

He still wasn't completely comfortable with the concept, but the decision had been made that very day. His arms flexed; he could still feel the heavy warmth of her sleeping in his arms that first night. From that night on, he had been ready to fight for her, just as he was ready to die. He was hers. The rest was just… trifles.

"You shouldn't have left her, you know." Marguerite's gentle admonition broke him from his reverie.

She pulled free the last of the soiled lint from his side, and they both made a face, his from the sharp sting, and hers in sympathy. She dropped it in the pan at her feet and reached for the sponge. "That tavern over there is no place to leave a woman alone."

"I needed to have her somewhere safe," he said defensively. It had been his only goal since said day, a markedly difficult one, given what was given.

"A woman alone, in a strange town, in a tavern, is hardly safe," she pointed out, dryly.

She wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. Bloody woman knew too much already. It was wretchedly difficult to hide anything from her.

"A lone woman, on a pirate ship is hardly safe, either," he argued back, still feeling accused. "I couldn't have her with me, not out there."

Marguerite fell silent for several moments as she focused on washing his chest, her mouth in a disapproving frown. Jack tucked the sheet a little closer about his loins, fervently calling a rapid string of unsavory images to mind: Cotton, Cotton's bird, the monocular degenerate, Jones, anything to keep his goods from having an untimely awakening.

"You're just lucky I was here to take her in." Finishing one arm, she moved on to the next.

"Why did you try to keep me from her?" He scowled. Served her right! It was high time she was on the defensive, just a bit.

"Because, she didn't want to be found." She scrubbed too vigorously, causing Jack to yelp, but there was no apology forthcoming. "She was hurt and furious… and devastated."

He did have the grace to be abashed by that. "I suppose I owe you a bit of thanks."

"Does she have any idea what she's in for, getting tangle up with you?" Her question held no accusation, only frank observation. Wringing out the sponge, she shook her head. "You pirates are all alike, charming as snakes and free as birds," she muttered under her breath as she washed his leg. "Heaven help any woman that falls in love with one!"

Her face brightened, and a sly smile grew. "Is Joshamee still with you?"

"Certainly is! The old sea worm will probably have to spend a bit o' time about, seeing's how I'm so injured and all."

"Yes," she mused, pausing in mid-motion. "I would suppose, for your own well-being and safety, that you might have to linger here for a while."

"At least a week," Jack put in. "Right nasty business, being forced to stay in a whorehouse for several days, _and_ against me will, at that," he added judiciously.

Renewed thoughts abounded, with images of what could be done in a week's time, in bed, with Kate. Inhaling too deep, his daydream was shattered by a stab in his side. Blessed useless he was, right now… although, with Kate's angelic hands, the time might not be so wasted after all.

His goods tightened, and he quickly curtailed that line of thinking.

Marguerite's derisive snort broke him from his machinations. "As if you haven't done that before!" She gave him a light, scolding slap on the leg. "Lie still, now, and let me get this over with."


	47. Chapter 47: Being of Service

**Chapter Forty-seven: Being of Service**

**Propped** up against the pillow, Kate's door never closed as Jack held court, basking in the attention lavished upon him as the brothel's women filed through their room, cooing and clucking over him. Lavishing flattery, he coquettishly engendered his own accolades and endearments. While Jack flirted with women clad in nothing more than a silk wrapper or corset and stockings, Kate sat quietly at the table or before the window sewing, keeping a watchful eye for the first signs of Jack tiring, all the while with a growing confidence that, when their door was closed, it would be her shoulder that he sought to lay his head.

Gibbs did appear on their bedroom doorstep the next morning, gloriously cheerful, bright-eyed and with a remarkable spring in his step. The sound of the footsteps in the hall should have been sufficient warning, but Kate didn't heed anything, until she heard a gruff clearing of a throat.

"Gibbs!"

Overcome with joy, she seized him by the neck and gave him a great hug. Caught in the moment, his arm came around her, but then quickly fell away.

"Mr. Kate, 'tis good to see ye!" Discommoded by such a personal display, he cleared his throat again, louder. "Yer lookin' well, sir! A sight for sore eyes, to be sure!"

"It's about time, bloody sea worm!" Jack interceded good-naturedly. "I could have been lyin' on me deathbed…"

"Aye, Cap'n, but ye weren't," Gibbs countered with evenly, swiveling his attention.

Moving closer, he scrutinized his captain with the same acuity as he would the set of a sail.

"I've seen ye worse, Cap'n, but I've seen ye better more oftener."

Kate was ecstatic to see Gibbs, not only because she considered him as a friend, but more so because of his friendship with Jack. To the best of her knowledge, Gibbs had been with Jack through the last year; if anyone could offer further enlightenment, it would be the shepherding First Mate of the _Black Pearl. _Roosted back on her stool, Kate bubbled internally with questions, but resisted, knowing that Gibbs was there for another reason.

"Anchor watch is on, Pintel and Ragetti," Gibbs pointedly specified. Jack had made no inquiry, but none was needed; the First Mate knew exactly what would be foremost in his mind. "The blockmaker and shipwrights are a-workin' on the _Pearl_ as we speak. Canvas seems a bit on the short supply, hereabouts, but _provisions_ have been made."

Between two pirates, Kate knew that proviso could only mean one thing, and money certainly played no part.

"There be a decent armorer, so's the swivel guns can be replaced. No guns available," Gibbs sighed with considerable regret, "but we can at least have the vents and such rebored on Bucephalus and Bellerophron."

"Bucephalus and Bellerophon?" Kate echoed.

Both men were caught by surprise, but it was Jack that finally responded. "Certainly! Number Seventeen and Number Twenty-three gun." He blinked, baffled. "You didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"Really, darling!" Jack huffed, dramatically rolling his eyes skyward. "How could a gun crew ever lavish the loving care a gun requires, and not even give her the courtesy of a name?"

"Her?" Jack's bafflement seemed to be contagious. Kate recalled seeing words scrawled on the carriages of the ship's guns, on both the _Black Pearl_ and the _Melody_, but they had been considerably more basic: Beelzebub, Spit Fire or Widowmaker.

Jack and Gibbs looked from her, and then exchanged looks, as if they suspected that she was trying them on.

"Why would you give _her_ a man's name?" Jack's query was barely patient.

"I have no idea," Kate murmured, bracing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She knew she was going to regret it, but felt compelled to make one final point. "But, those aren't _her_ names."

Neither man was abashed by that, but it was Jack who ventured to explain.

"Thirty-some guns, including the swivels, and one can start to run out of names."

"Can't be a-namin' one the same as one's what's been lost," Gibbs was quick to point out.

"Of course. Why did I even ask?" Kate muttered under her breath. "I'll have to confess, I've never heard of guns being referred to as 'her' before," she said, already wondering why she had ventured further. Her experience with cannon wasn't limited; the Rising hadn't been devoid of them.

Waving an irritated hand, Jack's face screwed with disgust. "Pa! Can't help the ignorance of others."

The two men shook their heads, their final statement on the matter.

"How long ye figgerin' to be laid up?" Gibbs rocked on his heels, his overt innocence highlighting his true motivation in that inquiry: the longer the stay, the more time he could be spending on the third floor where Marguerite's rooms were. Judging by the levity in his step, and the smile permanently etched, Gibbs and Marguerite had already enjoyed a portion of their reunion.

Realizing that more than anyone, Jack was only able to curtail a small part of his smile. "I've been given to believe at least a week."

"Them ribs won't be ready fer sea by then." Gibbs' disbelief, and disappointment, was apparent.

"Maybe not, Gibbs," Jack agreed easily, "but _I_ will be."

Kate stiffened. A week. She swallowed, balling her fist in the folds of her skirt, feeling the clock ticking already, like a wretched time bomb.

_It was what you wanted,_ she thought. _You agreed._

Agreed, yes. Wanted, no. She had wanted much more; a week had been Jack's suggestion.

A week.

Jack would stand by their accord to the letter. Anger surging, her first thought was to tell him to be gone, if that was all that bound him. Closely on that came the rationalization that a week could have been far more than she might have had otherwise. His injuries weren't severe enough to prevent him from setting sail, if he wished. There was only one conclusion that could be drawn from that: he wanted to stay. But was it for her, or was there another driving force?

"The _Pearl_ will be a-needin'…" began Gibbs, entering his objection.

"Far more than can be obtained here," Jack interrupted, his resolve firming. "T'will be a week's rest, Master Gibbs. Hopefully, the _entire_ crew won't shirk their duties in these joyous times."

A direct look punctuated the broad hint.

"Aye, sir!" Gibbs straightened, drawing to attention. "Ye can count on every manjack."

Jack's levity faded, his fingers soundlessly drumming on the bed. "They're green, Gibbs. Can they be trusted?"

"Aye, green they be," Gibbs sobered, nodding confidently. "But their pride o' bein' aboard the _Black Pearl_ will go a long ways. They'll be there when ye get there, Cap'n."

Jack was visibly gratified. "Very well then. Tend your duties."

Gibbs had sketched a salute before he fully caught the lilt in Jack's voice. To Kate's shock, she discovered that Gibbs wasn't above blushing. "Aye, sir."

Ducking a nod, first to Jack and then to Kate, Gibbs was nearly to the door when Jack stopped him.

"Gibbs?"

Halting in midstride, an expectant lift of the brows was the elder's response,

"You're aware of our houseguest?"

Gibbs gave circumspect look from under his brows. "Yessir. That poxed bit o' worm's meat won't be a-hindering anyone else."

There was a long silence filled with meaning between the two. Kate felt a brief wave of guilt. For some odd reason, she felt a responsibility toward the attacker from the night before, and whatever further misfortune might have befallen him. She resisted asking what had happened to the man; every voice told her that she was better off not knowing.

She glanced at Gibbs. His kindly manner when with her had obscured a darker side. It was another keen reminder of the world she had come to live in, drug in actually, by Jack and the men of the _Black Pearl_, a pirate's world, one of violence, living by the sword and dying by the sword. Granted the nameless, faceless person hauled away to the carriage shed by Gaubert wasn't a pirate, but he had the misfortune of having stumbled into it, and had done violence to their captain. Nothing more need be said.

"Very well," Jack said, at length, visibly relaxing. "The world will be a better place."

Nodding, Gibbs spun on his heel and left.

Struck with a thought, Kate rose quickly. Once Gibbs returned upstairs, she might not see him for the remainder of the week. Her curiosity burned too brightly to wait.

"I think I heard Minnie calling!" And she scurried out.

It was a horrible lie, so grossly transparent it left Jack thinking that perhaps it was meant to hide something else. No matter. It provided her with the excuse to speed out of the room.

Not surprisingly, Gibbs was en route to the third floor stairs, and Marguerite's rooms, and was a bit flustered when Kate caught him up at the base. It seemed absurd to be embarrassed by such things in a brothel, but then maybe she was becoming inured to it.

"I want to ask you something, Gibbs."

"Aye?" He gave her a wary look from the corner of his eye.

"I promise, I won't ask any questions that we both know you would have to lie to answer."

Gibbs' relief was obvious.

Kate understood the delicate balance Gibbs walked between subordinate and friend to Jack; doubtlessly there would be thing that Gibbs had been compelled to keep secret. She wasn't afraid to face the fact that there were many things she was probably better off not knowing. After all, ignorance could be bliss.

She bit her lip; having rehearsed this opportunity several times, she was still unsure of how to begin.

"What happened?" It was a lame beginning, but the best one she could articulate, at the moment.

Exhaling through his nose, Gibbs' wide mouth worked. "Some things I can be sayin' fer sure, and some, even seein' 'em with my own eyes, I'm still not so sure."

"Gibbs." Kate laid a hand on his arm. "What happened to him?"

His brows nearly touched as he carefully considered his answer. At one point, he started to say something, and then was interrupted. The tinkle of a bell came from one of the rooms. Dutifully beckoned, Minnie appeared from one room and went into another, softly closing the door behind her.

"Someday," he finally began, "when we've a watch to spend, and a bottle each, I'll try to explain to ye."

"Jack's told me some things." In spite of the day's heat building in the hall, she shuddered. "I don't know what to believe. You know Jack; you never know where the truth ends, and his version of reality begins."

Gibbs' mouth quirked as he reluctantly concurred. "Believe me, sir. Whatever he told you, is still not as confounded, doubly-damned or God-forsaken as what it really were." Gibbs shifted his feet, and cast a furtive glance up the stairs, his desire to be somewhere else apparent.

"The Cap'n… Jack swore me to secrecy," he said, that preamble but a repetition of what Kate had been thinking. "All I can say, is he tried to do the right thing, and was near gutted for his efforts. So, he did what anyone would do—what everyone expected him to do—and went and served hisself, and t' blazes with the rest. Turned out," he shrugged, at his own puzzlement, "everyone was the better for it."

He surveyed her as he decided how much more to say, finally leaning closer in confidence. "The Cap'n's one o' those souls that, once he takes a notion, he's like a ferret: there ain't no shakin' 'im loose."

He was interrupted by Minnie exiting the room. A ewer under her arm, she made her way down the servants' steps before he continued. "Out o' that whole blazin' mess, all I can say fer sure, is Jack only had two thoughts: the _Pearl_ n' you." He shook his head in wonderment. "Can't say as I could always defend his means, but ye gotta admire the man for his convictions."

In a way, Gibbs had told her nothing, and yet, Kate heard everything she needed to hear. A few more pieces fell into place, but she already knew that she was going to have to resign herself to a puzzle that would never be complete. Too many pieces of Jack's life had been lost for that—several of which had probably thrown overboard by his own hand.

Kate returned to her room to find Jack soundly asleep, exhausted. His head sunk in the pillow, turned slightly to the side, eerily still compared to his usual animation. It was a rare occasion to see him sleep. His lips parted somewhat, one hand splayed on his stomach, the bandages cut a stark swath across the ivory of his chest.

Cautious of the creaking floorboards, Kate tiptoed to the corner table, and quietly resumed her work. Jack's arrival had been a disruption, and she was behind. Her head still throbbed, and sudden turns could result in light-headedness. Against the backdrop of the routine noises of the house, the quiet that befalls a sickroom was only disrupted by the pop of her needle pulling through the fabric, and the soft rasp of Jack's breathing.

Kate might have made an inadvertent noise when she looked up, and saw Gaubert standing in the doorway. Years of constant danger, ever on the defensive, had made its mark, and Jack jerked awake, swearing colorfully at the resultant pain from the sudden movement.

"Bloody ghost, popping up like that!" groused Jack, grumbling unkind remarks under his breath. "'Tis wholly unwise to be startling a soul who's on their sickbed—near death, I might add."

Gaubert's impassive face was unmoving. There was a palpable tension between them, two territorial dogs bristling; Kate was curious, but not enough to cause her to ask. It was starkly apparent that both preferred to be somewhere else.

"I should be thanking you for what you did for Miss Clarice." For such a large man, Gaubert's voice was inordinately soft. He took the safety of the women in the house as his personal, life's charge, and was disconcerted at having to thank Jack, of whom his disesteem was patently obvious, for helping when he couldn't.

"I'm sure you would have done the same," Jack said with a magnanimous gesture, his discomfiture stemming from being caught in such a noble act. "I just happened to be… closer. Opportune moment, and all that."

"Miss Minnie was cleaning, and found this."

The already small room was further dwarfed by Gaubert's entrance, in order to place something in Jack's palm. Kate strained to see, but couldn't, until Jack held it up, displaying it between his thumb and forefinger. Dull and grey, it was a piece of shot, its perfect roundness marred by a flattening of one side.

"She found it in the door," the strong-arm reported flatly.

With a mixture of distaste and curious intrigue, Jack frowned slightly as he scrutinized it. "Perhaps I should smelt it down, and return the favor," Jack said, rolling it in his fingers.

**Kate** was struck with a chilling thought that perhaps then she knew the motivation behind Jack's willingness to linger in Sint Maarten for a week.

Kate's dreams swirled in wild, incoherent directions, with slanted floors, twisted faces, and distorted voices. Then came the clang of a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil, but the anvil became her pillow, the hammer bashing her head. The blaze of a blacksmith's fire rose up, only to be overtaken by the glare of a bald-faced sun on a white sand beach, shimmers of heat like curling fingers rising to engulf her. Jerking awake, she rolled her eyes, searching the room, only to discover that the heat radiated from Jack.

She touched his bare chest and pulled away. His skin was hot and dry, his cheeks and lips were two bright red patches. It was as she had feared, but was surprised that the fever had come so quickly. It wasn't a good sign. Jack was as healthy as a horse, usually. Given what he had been through the last year, his unease, his thinness—even for him—inability to sleep and total lack of appetite, it wouldn't be surprising if his body was weakened... his spirit certainly was.

Her hand shook slightly as she undid his dressing, and lifted the packing to take a peek. Sweet oil had been dribbled on the cotton to prevent it from sticking, but it still did in a few small spots. To her relief, the wound was clear, no oozing or seeping, nor telltale odor. She touched its margins lightly; it was hot, far more than the rest of him. Jack stirred, weakly attempting to twist away then quieted.

Mouthing a few of Jack's best oaths, she went into the hallway, hoping to catch someone still about, but the hall was empty, the house typically quiet for that hour. Making her way down the servants' stairs to the kitchen, her quiet entrance startled Novella, the house's cook.

"I need some cool water and cloths," Kate asked. "And a poultice."

"He's fevered?"

Kate only nodded; Novella's golden eyes showed no surprise. The only thing now was to prevent Jack from succumbing; not as easily done as said. Armed with a pail of vinegar-laced water and cloths, Kate returned upstairs, leaving Novella to the poultice preparations.

Whetting the cloths, Kate wrung them out and packed them at Jack's neck and forehead then set to the laborious process of sponging. A fever needed to run its course, but it also needed to be stopped from ravaging the victim's body. Novella arrived shortly, a sleep-mudded Marguerite close behind. She inspected Jacks' side with an experienced air.

"None too bad yet," the madam murmured.

Novella dipped pieces of bread into warm milk, crushed carrot and linseed oil, and pressed it to the wound, front and back. Feebly moving, the furrows in Jack's face deepened.

"We'll give that a day," Marguerite announced. "If it doesn't work, we'll send for Ma Mere."

A chair was brought in, from which Kate maintained her vigil, through the night and into morning. His eyes occasionally slit open, to mutter something unintelligible, and then fall back to sleep. A few times, he tossed and churned, but then fell quiet. His fever never seemed to worsen, but neither did it abate. The hole in his side remained hot, but clear, the most encouraging sign of all.

Kate had watched too many men, initially hale and in the peak of health, pitch a gallant battle against fever, only to weaken and succumb. Some years before, it had occurred to her that the failing might come from what every man needed: food, nourishment. Beef broth would have been the common regimen, but too often it was not well-received by delicate stomachs, ravaged by fever and trauma. Besides, broth was impossible to come by, especially on the fringes of a battlefield. As she had administered sips of water through their parched lips, the idea of adding a bit of honey came to her. After seeing the ill and injured flourish, it became a cornerstone of her repertoire of cures, and she forced as much down Jack as could be tolerated.

At one point, she lifted Jack's head to administer some willow bark tea. He batted a feeble hand, mumbling dark oaths.

"It's for the pain and the fever. Drink it," she insisted in her most motherly tone.

Obliging, he did, and made a face, growling a protest. "Must you wash the chicken's feet in it first?"

"It's what gives it the potency," she said tolerantly. "Now drink, or I'll have Novella bring something worse."

He shot her a red-rimmed look of resentment. "Bloody woman would too, just to prolong me agonies. You've been looking forward to this," he added with a narrowed eye.

"You're right." Kate rose, lowering his head back to the pillow, smiling. If he could still crack wise, then maybe he wasn't so ill after all. "I arranged this entire ordeal, just to keep you humble."

Chloe and Marguerite came and went, drawn away by the duties of the house, but Kate remained unwavering at the bedside. Tea and biscuits, or trays of food were brought, but were taken away untouched. Kate's arms and back ached from the constant bending over the bed, and twisting the cloths and sponge. As if coming from Jack's radiant body, the sultry heat building announced the arrival of afternoon, spurring Kate to work faster, replacing the wet cloths packed around him more often, the mattress growing sodden.

Chanting silently, Kate clung to a single, talisman-like thought that Jack had survived too much to fall victim to something as menial as a fever resulting from a bullet in a whorehouse. On the other hand, it could be seen as a fitting end to an illustrious and colorful life: dying in the best brothel in the West Indies, fighting to defend a whore.

She stopped in mid-motion of sponging his fever-taught skin, to look at him. "No, Jack. You're not getting off this easy."

She rose to fetch more water and swayed dangerously; luckily Chloe was there to catch her. Kate tried to wave her away, but the maid was insistent, ensconcing her in a chair drug to the corner. Determinedly resistant, Kate tried to rise, but her knees failed; the room pitching. Hands gently pushed her back, and darkness overtook her.

Kate woke, and was instantly angered with herself for having fallen asleep. It was still night, the single candle burning on the bedstand casting long, distorting shadows, an eerie silence filling the air. A dark shape was hunched over the bed, but what made Kate's throat clutch was Jack's motionless figure. Half-obscured in the darkness, profile sharp against the whitewashed wall, he was deathly still, his eye sockets and lines of his face almost skeletal. His arms resting on his stomach, he looked as though he had been laid out, in final repose.

Hearing Kate's panicked gasp, the bedside shape moved, revealing Chloe's face. "He's fine," she whispered, over her shoulder.

Kate blinked in disbelief, unable to ignore the morbid atmosphere and Jack's stillness.

"He's fine," Chloe repeated more firmly as she wearily rose to leave. "He's just resting; he'll be up in no time."

Unconvinced, Kate laid a hand on Jack's cheek, and closed her eyes in relief. Considerably cooler, the true proof of Chloe's assessment was in the sheen of sweat on his skin; the fever had broken.

Jack stirred at her touch, his eyes opening a slit. He attempted a smile then licked his lips, with the intention of speaking, but it seemed too much effort and he drifted off again.

"_I always perform better when there's a bonnie lass in me bed."_

Jack's words echoed back; it was an enticing thought. If that simple act would help him heal, then who was she to argue? Exhaustion tugged at every bone, the simple act of blowing out the candle or tugging her laces loose being herculean efforts. Leaving her clothes in the floor in a careless puddle, she slipped under the sheet and wormed closer. She found his hand and gently squeezed. Faint but definite, the contented curl of his mouth barely visible in the moon's dim light, he squeezed back.

**Kate **was awakened with an uncomfortable feeling, the strange, nape-of-the-neck-prickling sensation that she was being watched. Cautiously cracking one eye open, she found two sable-brown ones inches away, staring back.

"Good morning, luv." Jack's voice was roughened with sleep and fever, but the words still purred. The sun's brilliant path banding the floor was further testimony to his declaration.

"What are you doing up?" she asked muzzily, rubbing one eye.

"Watching you sleep. I've yearned to do this. Don't move." A light hand stilled her. With a faint smile, he brushed hair back from her face. "Not yet. The morning light suits you."

Uncertain at first, she settled deeper, and watched him watching her. She wanted to tell him that the morning sun was equally fascinating on him, gold and bronze hyphenated with flashes of white.

"You must be feeling better," she said. Despite of the corners still being pinched, his eyes had regained some of their brightness; his smile came easier and was more genuine.

"A little," he granted then grinned. "Told you I always rest better with you next to me."

He risked lifting on shoulder in a half-attempted shrug, and winced. "Not the first time I've been shot; probably not the last either. They do say Blackbeard had been shot twenty-two times."

"Is that a goal?" She reached up to trace the harsh lines along his mouth. The angle of his mustache, a sure barometer to his moods, still curved sharply downward, but his color was better.

"You are hurting aren't you?" She sat up, more squarely before him, so that he didn't have to twist his head so much.

"A little," he conceded, pointedly looking away.

"A lot." Putting a finger to his chin, she brought him back around. "A lot." It was more of a confirmation than a question.

"Oh, all right!" he grudgingly huffed, wincing again when he inhaled too sharply. "Not a lot, but some. Must be at least the third, maybe the fourth time these ribs have been broken. Satisfied?"

Kate glanced toward the angle of the sun through the window; it was well past mid-morning. "I should get up. Novella or Minnie will be here…"

"Already have, twice," he said, stopping her with a hand on the shoulder. "Slept like the dead, you did."

Kate shuddered at the reference. "Don't say it that way." She shuddered again, and he chuckled, only to have it cut short by the catch in his side.

"You should be lying quiet today," she said in her most motherly tone.

"Thoughts of quiet did occur to me." His mustache slyly lifted one corner of his mouth. If there was any doubt as to the line of his thinking, the lilt in his voice as his hand drifted along her collarbone erased it. "And with a bit of managing, I could be lying, as you so indicated..."

"Jack, you couldn't possibly!"

Even as she protested, her eyes rolled closed as his fingers slid lower. She started to speak, but gasped as he cupped her breast, his thumb delicately brushing her nipple. "You've been shot night," she said, with some effort, "and ran a fever all night."

"Don't tell me, tell me cock." He glared censoriously down his nose at the offending member and the telltale lifting of the sheet. "I told you, the bloody thing has a mind of its own, especially when you're about," he said, accusing. "I'm just a pawn in…"

"I surrender," she chuckled softly. She gasped, quivering under his hand as his explorations grew more persistent.

"Then, may I suggest you have me best interest at heart, and assure I don't over-exert meself?"

Carefully shifting, he brought her with him, his eyes holding hers with a delighted glint, emitting a pleasured groan when her hand found him.

"Mm!," she murmured appreciatively, palming his weight. "That's not fair; you're way ahead of me."

"Sorry, luv," he sighed, unapologetically. "Time waits for no one."

His hands rested on her hips, guiding her, gentle but urgent. As she rose over him, she jostled him and he flinched, biting back a pained gasp.

"Jack, this isn't going to work," she said, pulling away.

"I need you, Kittie." His eyes were pleading, half-lidded with longing. Given the evidence, it wasn't an exaggeration. "You've ruined me, there are no others. Take me now, or leave me to die from the wanting."

Her hand had found his need, silky and hard, and stroked him even firmer. "I certainly don't want to have your death on my hands," she said slowly, her fingers flexing for emphasis. "If you know what's good for you, don't you dare move." Giving him a stern, warning eye, she slipped lower.

Encircling him with one hand, she took him deep, but gently, ever watchful, maintaining a fine balance between pain and pleasure; serving him enough to provide what he needed, but not so much as to cause him undo pain, all the while wondering why she was so self-conscious of doing so in a brothel.

Leaving him spread-eagle and languid, Kate stretched out next to him after.

"You owe me," she warned, lightly propping her chin on his shoulder.

"Take a close look, luv, your coin is on the table. I'll be your whore," he declared, breathless in his afterglow, "just as soon as I am able."


	48. Chapter 48: A Mother's Day

**Chapter Forty-eight: A Mother's Day**

**As** predicted, forced to remain—against his will, Jack added pointedly and often—in a whorehouse for a week, was nasty business, so nasty in fact, that the only remedy was long afternoons and nights in bed—with Kate. The glory was that no one seemed to notice or care. They were left alone, no urgent summonings, no injured crew, no unexpected wind changes or course adjustments, no decisions to be made. Nothing.

Kate knew the more Jack grumbled, the better he was feeling, inching daily closer to his usual cheerful, grating self. He lamented his hindered performance with equal frequency. By most standards, the bed in Kate's room was small, but compared to their narrow bunk on the _Black Pearl_, it was expansive, with white linen sheets and soft down pillows. His frustration stemmed from not being able to take advantage of the newfound space, because of his injuries, and so he endured his confinement with martyr-like grace.

A chasm did exist between them, one that neither would acknowledge nor address.

One week… and then what?

In his own charm-laden style, Jack blithely ignored the matter, and Kate couldn't garner the courage to ask. In a sense, she knew the answer already; hearing it would only make it too real to be able to pretend. And yet there were those moments, when Jack had made pledges of never leaving, of togetherness, and all the other heartfelt confessions she had longed to hear. It led her to wonder, if he said such things only because he knew it was what she wanted to hear, or if for once, he spoke the truth.

And so, they laughed and kissed, and languished in bed… and never spoke of it.

**The** shooting had delayed Jack's desire to see his mother's remains—for lack of a better word—properly interred, but as soon as he was able to rise and stagger across the room—over Kate's objections—he had been intransigent on the matter. While living in the Highlands, Kate thought she had witnessed every variety of stubbornness; Scots could take mulishness to a unique level, but none compared to the epic proportions exhibited by a determined Sparrow. It didn't take long for her to come to the conclusion that opposing him might cause more damage than whatever exertion a burial might entail.

Pale but determined, a shovel slung over one shoulder and a small canvas bag on the other, Jack led the way, his prolonged silence a strong indicator of the emotional weight he carried. Skirting the town, he took a circuitous path along its fringes, ultimately picking up a small, barely travelled lane. In light of Jack's physical impairment, Kate was concerned about the chances of encountering Doncker. Jack's pistol had necessarily been shifted to his opposite side, but even with that accommodation, carrying it caused him considerable discomfort. Kate's worries were allayed, however, as they left the town behind.

Always eager to be outside, Kate ordinarily would have greatly enjoyed such a walk, but given their mission, and her concern for Jack, her enthusiasm was hampered. As Kate followed behind him, she tried to divert her attention with the passing scenery, but her eyes were inexorably drawn to the grisly head swinging from his belt, bumping his hip with each step.

A stone wall soon rose to one side, paralleling their path. Nearly shoulder high, humped under a cloak of vines, the wall coursed in and out of shaded patches. Further on, buildings could be seen crouched behind the wall. Lurking under an expanse of trees, the abandoned structures struggled to keep their heads above the vines' grasping green fingers.

They came upon the main entrance, defined by stout pillars and a gap wide enough for a carriage to pass. A lone wrought iron gate dangled from a single hinge, a final, desperate connection, before falling into obscurity with its lost partner. Out of the midday glare and into the cave-like dark cool under the trees, the place proved to be a virtual compound. Certain respects indicated that it had once been an estate or plantation, while other aspects, cross-emblazoned lintels, a sizeable chapel, and extensive outbuildings, suggested it may have been an abbey. Half-buried in overgrown shrubbery, the house was barely visible, dove and swallows darting with abandon through its gaping orifices. Kate couldn't help but wonder how Jack had ever come to find such a place.

Shadows laced Jack's shoulders as he crossed the yard to pick up a lesser path. A small, furred creature, alarmed by their intrusion into its sanctum, loudly filed its complaint, and then scampered off in a rattle of leaves. Their footsteps were muffled in the carpet of leaves and debris, stirring the smell of rotting vegetation.

A mosaic of greens, emerald, jade, lime, bottle, sage and chartreuse, studded by eye-dazzling flares of sun and sky, the grounds were a testimonial to Nature's inexorable crusade to reclaim what had been taken,. Marble sculptures, amputated by time, ghostly pale against the lushness, peeked out from the grown over gardens. The branches overhead teemed with the flitting bodies of brightly-plumed birds: thrushes, orioles, parrots, and warblers, boisterously reporting their progress.

Rounding through a smaller iron gate, they came to a secluded, grotto-like space. Over the chorus of birds, the sound of water gurgled invisibly from a shaded corner. Jewel-toned hummingbirds took advantage of the protection offered by the garden's walls and foliage, hovering at blossoms of scarlet, orange and fuchsia. The smell of a rose, spicy and sweet, reached Kate, before she saw the rambler in one corner. Doubly intense against the verdant backdrop, it clambered in gay, yellow abandon, tumbled along a wall, and then scampered up into a jacaranda, in vivid purple bloom.

Jack chucked the tip of the spade into the dirt at the rambler's foot, indicating that they had finally arrived at their destination.

"She liked roses," he said, a bit breathless. "Just like you."

As determined as Jack had been regarding the journey, he was forced to yield to Kate's insistence when it came to digging the hole, albeit no more than a few scoops in the soft dirt were required. Now ashen, he stood resolutely beside the little grave. In a cold sweat and swaying, he cradled the head in his hands.

"I promised, Mum, and here I am—we are," he corrected awkwardly. "She's someone more than special." He looked up at Kate and his gaze softened. "You would have liked her, although you'd have to look up to see her face; she's a tall one. She has your… spirit, although wretchedly more determined, by a damn sight."

Since the human invasion, a clutch of warblers, their sulfur-color more brilliant than the roses, had scolded from their perches overhead. As if in respect for the small ceremony, they fell quiet, canting their heads inquisitively.

The bulge in Jack's throat moved as he swallowed. "I haven't seen Charles since…" He shrugged, the sentence fading. "And Miriam, well… I expect you two are together now… or will be, soon enough."

Kate assumed that Miriam was Jack's sister, younger by several years. He had mentioned her only the once; the opportunity to inquire further had never risen.

Heaving a deep sigh, wincing at the discomfort that movement brought, Jack looked off across the deserted yard. "Things have changed. I tried to heed what you said, but I can't say that all has gone the way I had imagined. You'd be knowing too, that by now, I expect. Knowing Teague, he couldn't help but gloat."

Kate stole a look at Jack from the corner of her eye, and wondered if one day, she might repeat the scene, standing at the edge of a hole, laying him to rest, the penance for the privilege of having him. Next week, next month, next year, next decade; there were no guarantees of when the price would be exacted. The only option was to treasure every moment allowed.

A frisson passed through her—a goose crossing her grave, Brian would have said. She balled a fist in the folds of her skirt. Never! If the Devil presented himself, she would make any deal necessary to prevent having to witness Jack's demise. She bit her lip, instantly knowing better. Her only hope was that she could be the first to go; she couldn't bear it otherwise.

"I've not managed to find Father," Jack went on. Kate couldn't help but notice that his accent had softened considerably. "I kept thinking, sooner or later, someone, somewhere or another, would come up and say, 'Eh! You look just like… what's-his-name,' but it never came to pass." Shoulders drooping, he looked down at himself and frowned. "Maybe I've made a things a bit too difficult for that.

"I just went through Hell, a bit ago. Somehow, I can't help but think that you had a hand in all that. Otherwise, there is no way of explaining how I ever lived to tell of it," he added, shaking his head in bafflement.

"Teague said you'd finally had your fill of him." He couldn't suppress his pleasure at that. "You'll be knowing already, how I feel on that matter, so I'll say no more. This isn't the place to be rehashing old… unpleasantness." His fingers danced, as if he were waving something away.

As Kate watched him continue to sway, she grudgingly was thankful for the stubbornness that he had exhibited earlier; it was the only thing keeping Jack upright at the moment.

His eyes lit, and there was a ghost of his familiar smile. "That was a grand ol' chat we had in the boat, eh? I've missed those." The gladness fading, his eyes saddened. "Seems like once we arrived at Shipwreck, there wasn't much time for those anymore."

Kate didn't consider herself a religious person, but gravesides tended to make one reverent. She said a silent prayer for Brian, feeling guilty for stealing from Jack and his mother for her own purposes. It was an opportunity she had never been allowed: to see Brian's soul set to rest, to give the final benediction that closes the door on one life, allowing the other to live on.

Since one morning over a year ago, on the _Black Pearl_, Brian hadn't come to her as often. She still felt his presence, a guiding hand at her back, steering, watching, and waiting to see her safe. It had been the thing he wanted most, no differently than the man who stood before her now.

"Well, unless you have something else to say."

Kate started, thinking that Jack was speaking to her. It was a great relief when she saw his attention was fixed on the blackened face in his hand. Screwing his face with the effort, Jack fished a large square of rose-patterned silk from inside his shirt. Kate recognized the pattern as Severine's wrapper, and wondered how he had procured it. She instantly dismissed the suspicion, scolding herself for being petty. With tender care, he wrapped it around the head, and then knelt to place the small bundle on its side in the bottom of the hole.

Kate reached for the shovel, but he gently pushed her away. "I'll do it," he said, stiff-jawed with firmness of purpose.

Wincing with every shovelful, beats of sweat dripping, and requiring several breathers, he finally tamped the dirt down.

"A marker?" Kate was already visually scanning the deserted garden for something that might serve.

"No." Jack shook his head firmly, drug by both emotional and physical pain. "She never could abide anything weighing her down. Mum was more of the earth, as opposed to anything created by man." The loathsome look he threw over his shoulder toward the chapel caused Kate to wonder what history laid there. He touched the silver ornament that hung at his shoulder. "I'll always know where she is."

Kate groped for something to say. It was too easy to recall standing at her own mother's graveside, the old pain suddenly fresh and raw. She had been considerably younger—barely in her teens—with little idea of how to cope with such a devastating loss.

"No worries, luv." Jack's voice broke her thoughts. He smiled, but it faltered. Then he took her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "There's naught to be said; Mum was lost years ago. 'Tis only a simple matter of tidying up."

Unwilling to leave, Jack led her to a nearby tree, and bid her to sit. Kate watched helplessly as squirmed, swearing under his breath as he strove to find a tolerable position propped against the trunk. Once satisfied that he was comfortable, Kate stretched out in the grass, their feet inches apart. From the canvas bag that he brought, he extracted a stoneware bottle and a battered silver cup.

"She never approved of drinking from the bottle," he explained. "She claimed that was reserved for barbarians and drunks."

He winced, either from that thought or his ribs. Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, he filled the cup.

"Lemon shrub," he announced around the cork. "It was her favorite. Ol' Teague plied her with everything from the most exotic to the most valued, from bumboo to Constantia. Mum always like this better."

His chest rose and fell with each breath as he stared introspectively into the cup, seeing something past its pale, yellowish contents. Finally he lifted it toward the garden corner and the mound of drying dirt in salute.

"To you, Mum."

He seemed inclined toward saying something further, but ducked his nose into the cup instead. His mustache glistening with droplets of moisture, he handed it to Kate, and she took a drink.

Refreshingly lemony, the shrub's combination of tart and sweet was tempered by the rough bite of brandy. She looked up to find him watching her carefully, waiting for her reaction, gratified to see that she liked it. It was delicious.

"I guessed that you would fancy anything with brandy." It was a gentle jibe, but then he sobered, shaking his head in wonderment. "You two are two peas."

As per custom, Kate drained the cup, handing it back. Jack obviously wanted to linger, and so he refilled the drink, and they companionably shared it. It was just as well, Kate thought. His hand shook slightly when he wiped the droplets from his mustache. He tried to appear casual, but he was still ill at ease, and justifiably so. Burying one's mother, not matter how delayed, would be a strain.

Talking seemed to ease him. No surprise there; it was Jack. She did the only thing she could, the only thing it ever seemed she could do for him: be there. And so she listened as he rambled through the disjointed tumble of recollections. No one's memories are an organized compendium, a tidy atlas in tight sequence from beginning to end. His spirit lightened with each memory, benefiting from the opportunity to take them out, examined them, and then returned them.

"Do you miss her?"

Dropping his hat at his side on the ground, he only briefly considered her question. "Not really." He saw her surprise at that. "She's with me near every day. I hear her… scolding most of the time," he added with a wry lift of one eyebrow.

"What would she have told me about you?"

Startled at the thought, he reddened. "Not much," he mumbled, waving her inquiry away.

"Come now," she chided. "No one knows us better than our parents. We all have something we pray no one will ever hear." She nudged his foot with hers. "C'mon. There has to be something."

"She called me _loscann_," he said at length, measuring each word. He avoided looking her way, his color heightening. "It's Celt for frog, because me eyes were so big, and I was always hopping around; I could never sit still for long, always mucking about. I think I ate me share of bugs when I was a tyke, too," he added as an afterthought. "She said she pitied the guardian angel assigned to me, t' would be old before its time trying to keep up."

Kate struggled to keep from smiling in the face of his discomfiture. Falling quiet again he took a drink, softly smacking his lips then leaned his head back, looking skyward.

"She worried for me, wanted me to be as educated as I might; she claimed me brains were going to be me only means to survive."

The profundity of that made him grimace. Then he peered down his nose, disdainfully scrutinizing himself. "It would have killed her to see me now."

"I rather doubt that," Kate said with certainty, her throat thickening at his dispiritedness. "A parent loves a child regardless, because no matter how old you are, you're still that child."

"Really?" His features eased, relieved but at the same time intrigued.

Kate shifted, the movement stirring the mossy damp of the grass. "I wish I could have met her." She couldn't help but wonder what kind of a woman could have had him for a son.

"No more than I, luv," he said genuinely. "It would have done this ol' heart a world o' good to see you two standing together."

A mockingbird alit on the chapel rooftree and began a less than melodious outpouring of calls. Kate leaned closer, propping her chin interestedly in her palm.

"Describe her for me." For some time, she had been trying to picture what his mother might have been like; a dried, shrunken head had been of little guidance. "Was she dark, like you?"

A metallic clatter accompanied the shake of his head. "No, her hair was darker, like a raven's wing. Her eyes were blue, like that bird up there." He gestured with his chin toward a jeweled-indigo hummingbird hovering at a trumpet-like cascade of scarlet flowers.

"And your nose?"

He crossed his eyes slightly, judging. "A bit rounder at the tip."

"And your mouth?"

His mustache took a downward turn, his nose curling. "Unfortunately, yes. Girly mouth, 'tis what the lads called me, until I was old and big enough to stop them," he added on a prideful note.

"I never fancied you to be a fighter."

"No," he chuckled, his humor coming easier; the lemon shrub was having its effect on both of them. "But I could run fast, lead them right where I wanted, and then ambush them. Got me bum whipped after by Mum for me efforts."

He turned his attention on her, closing one eye. "You've never spoken much of yours."

Kate was a bit taken aback by that; it seemed her mother was always in her thoughts. It was a perplexing question: how does anyone summarize someone so significant in one's life?

"She was always busy," she said at length, "seeing to the house or the servants, or my brothers and I. It was rare to see her sit, until after supper."

"Not unlike someone else I know," he grinned admiringly. "'Tis no stretch of the imagination to see how five boys and you kept her busy."

"Father was her biggest concern." Now it was her turn to flinch. As much as time could soften the sharp edges of hurt and pain, memories are not necessarily always pleasant. "Everything revolved around him."

"Demanding sort, was he?" The sharpness in Jack's question revealed that he was acutely aware of how much she was understating reality.

She shifted, taking a drink before answering. "Let's just say no one wanted to be in the room with him." She suppressed a shudder. "If he was in one of his tempers, she was the only one that had the courage to go in."

"Then you are a product of your lineage: temper from one, and courage from the other. Did you fancy your mother?" He took pleasure in turning the tables on her.

"No, she was Spanish; she was dark, like you. Most of my brothers looked like her. I took after my father, which made it easier when he sent me east, to go live with his family. I think Father would have preferred to think that I wasn't his—having a daughter being a weakness and all—but there was no denying me.

"What did you get from her?" A slight cant of Kate's head indicated the barely visible grave.

It was Jack's turn to be surprised. Lowering his lids, his thoughts veiled behind his lashes.

"She spoke with the auld ones; it made her seem wise, as if she could see that there was something better… somewhere," he added with a fluttering pass of the hand. "She knew how to do what she must to get what she needed. And she could make people smile, win them over with just one look. A charmer, she was."

"Not unlike her son," Kate said before she realized it.

He took a drink, rolling it in his mouth before swallowing. "What was it like, to see the two of them, your mother and father together?" he asked with guarded curiosity, looking up from under his brows at the end.

"You mean did they love each other?" It was a question that could be easily understood, coming from someone who had never had the privilege of seeing his parents together for any length of time.

"Yes, I think so, at first at any rate. Mother's family was horrified that she married a _criollo_; he wasn't even Catholic, but she defied everyone, and married him anyway. She bore ten children, six of us lived."

She knew well that many married couples came together only for the sake of making a child. A trait typical for arranged marriages, her parents had been far from that. Regardless, it was an awkward and uncomfortable thought. No child, of any age, wishes to contemplate what happens behind his parent's bedroom door. Every adult knew what was necessary to create him, but knowing and calling the images to mind were two entirely different matters.

"They fought." She rolled her eyes. Needing a distraction, she plucked free a blade of grass, twirling it in her fingers. "Believe me, they argued, battled, but always kept it between them, especially when it was about one of us… well, mostly me. Father claimed there was only enough money for tutors for my brothers, but Mother snuck me in, at least when he wasn't about. She was determined that I was going to be raised a lady."

"I'd say she did a right proper job." Jack's sincere praise was punctuated it with a gold-laced smile.

Kate's cheeks heated from more than the effects of the shrub. Jack wasn't one to toss about frivolous compliments, but every inner voice negated the thought.

"Mum was a great believer in books." Crossing his ankles, Jack idly wagged one foot. "She claimed the entire world was at your fingertips. She made sure I and Charles could read; she would have done as much for me sister, had still lived. Had her learning her letters," he bragged as an afterthought. "But then…"

His voice faded. Then he shook himself free of what was about to lead him down a morose path that he didn't want to journey.

Kate strained to recall what Jack had told her regarding his childhood. In search of his long-absent father, Jack's mother had only managed to travel just so far. Out of money and with three young children in tow, she was forced to the same decision as thousands before her: to sell herself. Then she had met up with Teague, a virtual step-father that Jack harbored little compassion toward.

"Do you think she cared for him… Teague?"

Jack's mouth pressed into a firm line. "Ol' Teague was smitten with her, right enough… and I think he was more than just shelter and a warm bed to her," he grudgingly admitted, idly scratching an arm.

"Is that why he took her, all of you, to Shipwreck?"

He shook his head then grinned in anticipation of her reaction. "I killed me first man at the ripe, old age of ten." He allowed her shock to abate, before he went on to explain.

"I hated it when she would bring the men back to our shack." His countenance clouded; the muscles in his jaw working. "Most times, I'd run, leave until they were gone. If not, I'd hide me head, and cover me ears, so I wouldn't have to listen to those rutting bastards panting all over her."

He took a drink, audibly swallowing. "One time, I came back in time to find one of them beating her. I grappled with him, finally got his pistol, and I shot him," he said, with blunt satisfaction. One corner of his mouth tucked up in frustration.

"It didn't kill him right off," he went on, almost apologetic. "He bucked and kicked in the floor. He still had enough breath to call me names and scream for help. Mum finally took the slops jar and bashed him over the head with it." He shrugged, smiling faintly. "That was the end of him. It turned out, he had connections, and I was to be arrested, if they could ever catch me," he qualified. "Mum was beside herself. As luck would have it, Teague was in port. He gathered us up, and took us to Shipwreck."

"Galling as it is, I think she loved the old barnacle, and he certainly thought the world moved in her tracks. It used to turn me blood cold to see how he looked at her, but I was too young and full o' meself to realize that I should have been happy for her. She'd found someone that truly cared." Brimming with moisture, his eyes came up to meet hers. "That's a tall order in this ol' world."

**Much** to his displeasure, it was necessary for Kate to help Jack up from the ground. Swaying slightly at first, he finally found his land legs, but still walked woodenly back to town.

Drooping with exhaustion, he was leaning heavily on Kate, by the time they returned to Marguerite's. Once back at the house, it was necessary to call Gibbs and Gaubert to get him back up the stairs and to her room. They lowered him carefully on the bed, and Kate tugged off his boots.

Kate bit back several urges to scold Jack as she stripped him down and saw him to bed. While she washed him and changed the dressings, his eyes were steadily on her, never leaving her face.

"Thank you." He said with such a meek, but heartfelt sincerity that made her glad she hadn't berated him. He lay back in the pillow, heavy-lidded and worn, but the most at peace than he had been since his return.

"You look tired, darling." His voice was a bare whisper.

"I am." The admission surprised her. Until then, she hadn't realized that every bone ached, her muscles complaining at every move. "It's not easy keeping you alive."

He gave a low chuckle. "Tell me about it. All things considered, I've come to the conclusion that death doesn't suit me, so alive it 'tis, still here in all me glory!" he beamed, lifting his arms slightly in display.

"I wish you would have told me that." She narrowed one eye at him as she tied off the dressings. "I could have saved myself a lot of effort."

They both fell quiet as Kate finished up her tasks. "She would have been proud of you," she finally said conversationally.

Exhaustion-dulled eyes lit at that. No longer a ship's captain, or a famed pirate, he was once again a child hoping for a parent's approval. "D'you think?"

Kate understood his anguish. Her father's approval had been an elusive commodity, somewhere in the range of hen's teeth; finding the Fountain of Youth would have been easier.

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"Once." Tease brightened the dark orbs further, and then he winked. "But in the end, me ever-vigilant cleverness saw through."

**It** was a hot afternoon, the heat lulled Jack to sleep before Kate had picked up the basin from the stool. She moved quietly, tidying up. She pulled back the sheet, to rearrange it on him, and paused.

_Damn. It was so difficult to love him, but impossible not to._

It was a wonder how someone with bullet scars on his chest, a brand on his wrist and a bone in his hair could look so innocent. Relaxed, his mouth curved sharply downward, his lower lip gently pouting, so very kissable.

It took every bit of willpower to keep her hands from him. Her body ached with the need to touch him, feel his flesh ripple under her fingertips, hear his breath quicken when she cupped her hand between his thighs. She wanted him as badly now as she did over a year ago, when a kiss from him was too much to hope for, to feel the pulse at his neck throb under her lips, or taste the saltiness of the moisture that pooled at the hollow of his throat.

He was an addiction; the more she had the more she wanted, like a sot who could barely finish one drink before worrying about the next. Her body was ever-ready for him, moist and slick just at the sound of his step, a spiraling rush that centered at the base of her spine, and radiated to every nook

Even in his state of exhaustion, a kiss on the neck, a soft blow in his ear, would bring him rigid, and possibly never waking. It seemed highly likely that he had made love to her in his sleep. It certainly spoke to his degree of practice, but also his need for her.

Resisting temptation, she undressed. Slipping under the sheet, she inched next to him, to share the pillow, his face inches from hers. The dark crescent of lashes never moved on his cheeks as he groped for her hand, not satisfied until his fingers laced through hers. The corners of his mouth lifted in the briefest trace of a smile, and then he was still.

He was at peace, his features more placid than any time since she had come to know him, but was still a weight, one that had been lingering since the day she had met him. Something else was on his mind. Was the man never to be allowed any peace?

Maybe that finally came with the grave.


	49. Chapter 49: Pastimes

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Pastimes**

**It** was evening, the house beginning to quiet, its business for the day drawing to an end. Every house has its language, its life translated through its own unique chorus of sounds, and through them, any inhabitant that cared to listen could trace that life.

Kate had learned. The tread on the steps creaked; a prolonged groan under Gaubert's foot, a brief, bare squeak if it was Minnie. Camille's bell to call Minnie was higher pitched, than Analise's. A bull-frog scraping of a hinges was Julia's door, a cricket-like sound, Severine's. The voices of the regular customers were becoming familiar to Kate, even each one's unique ring of the front bell.

Once the human presence abated, voices, bells, footsteps, cooking smells and pipe smoke, a house is able to make its own voice more clearly heard: a vibrating shutter told of wind direction, the hollow thump of its siding marking off the temperature drops, or the whistle in the chimney warned of impending storms. A tree limb outside Kate's window scraped the glass; the sea breeze had just shifted to the evening's off-shore.

Family. Home. Belonging. All words that she had longed to use. In many respects, the brothel was her home, her domestic mood showcased in the little vignette in her room: Jack propped in bed, reading a book, while she sat on the stool, sharing the candle, sewing.

After their return from burying Jack's mother, they had slept deeply, exhausted by both the emotional strain and physical. In the amber flare of the day's fading light, Kate had been awakened by a gentle nuzzling at her breast, and butterfly hands. Jack's every movement had been a measured effort, but with the visage of the little graveside bright in their minds, they sought each other to celebrate their survival, needing the reassurance of warm flesh. In the end, they shook in each other's arms, afraid to let go, keenly aware of the fragility of life.

Sated, the rustle of a page or the pluck of the needle through the fabric the only sound between them they bided their time, until a look or a gesture would signal more.

From the house's nocturnal sounds emerged another from overhead. Faint at first, it built in both in vigor and volume, a bed or chair, something heavy being driven against a wall in a rhythm that wasn't unique to a brothel: the spirited act of two bodies coming together. Two voices, not wholly unfamiliar, one bass, one soprano, soon joined in.

Looking up, Jack and Kate exchanged self-conscious glances; they too might have been responsible for much the same thing, several times. Reddening slightly, they went back to what they were doing with exaggerated focus.

Unable to ignore the obvious any further, Jack finally rolled his eyes to the ceiling as the crescendo built, and asked conversationally, "Is the third floor still Marguerite's?"

Kate lowered her sewing to follow his upward gaze. "Yes, it is."

The house's mistress claimed the entire third floor as her own. Aside from the expansive space, the top floor afforded a sweeping view of the harbor from its balconies and gave full advantage of the breeze. Kate had been invited to Marguerite's private sanctum only a few times. To her surprise, it was tastefully elegant, indicative of one who appreciated luxuries only for the sake of personal enjoyment, not to impress, a woman who was confident that any visitor would have eyes for her, not the quality of the damask.

"I have the impression that she and Gibbs have known each other for some time," Kate said, raising her voice, the ewer and basin beginning to vibrate on the washstand. Enthusiastic didn't begin to describe Marguerite's reaction when Gibbs had come through the door.

The corner of Jack's mouth wobbled with a suppressed smile. "You could say that."

His measured innocence was a sure hint that there was more of a tale for the asking. Unlike his First Mate, Jack often required an extra bit of prodding before telling what he knew. She gently nudged his leg with a foot.

"You know something, don't you?"

Marking his place in the book with his finger, Jack twisted his jaw sideways, taking a moment to decide where to start.

"T'was before I knew him—right after the Royal Navy had decided that they were no longer in need of his services—Gibbs was down near Sao Luis, Brazil, or thereabouts." A short wave indicated the exact location was of little importance. "Having just made port, and eager to see the town, he comes upon a man abusing a woman. Gallant that he is, he rescued the fair lady, soundly beating the scurrilous lout, so much so that he succumbed to his injuries the next day."

The sounds overhead reached a tremulous, pleasure-laden moan, and then fell to a deafening hush. One brow twitched as Jack glanced upward then continued, considerably more _sotto voce_ in the lull.

"As luck—or lack thereof, as the case might be—would have it, the man was the fair lady's husband, a man of substance, and the owner of a large plantation. Needless to say, Gibbs was arrested. He was standing on the dock in chains, awaiting sentence, when a solicitor comes forward to vouch for him.

"What did Gibbs do?" Kate leaned interestedly closer, propping her chin in her hand, the sewing going forgotten in her lap.

"What the bloody hell was he supposed to do?" Jack said without anger. "Someone was trying to save his arse, keep him from a certain appointment with the gallows. Both the solicitor and the magistrate had dined numerous times at the deceased's home, and were personally familiar with said man's abusive nature. In other words," he explained judiciously, "the bastard had gotten what he deserved. Being of good conscience, and a reasonable sense of right and wrong, the magistrate dropped the charges."

"Solicitor's never act on their own volition," Kate said. "Someone had to have paid him."

Not entirely pleased with Kate's interruption, Jack nodded. "The fair lady herself: Marguerite." He allowed the impact of that to settle before going on.

"Suffice to say, she was overflowing with gratitude, and a warm friendship ensued. The ol' sea worm knew how to charm even then. Make no mistake," he said, wagging a finger, "a few of the decease's complaints weren't entirely without basis; Marguerite did have an eye for the men, and they certainly had an eye for her. But without the protection of her husband's position, it became in her best interest to leave.

"So, Gibbs took her to Barbados, and saw her settled there. Being a man of the sea, he left, only to return a year or so later, to find she had taken up residence with a baronet, a man wealthy enough to keep her in the manner to which she preferred. 'Course, said dupe was away attending business, so there was no reason why she and Gibbs can't resume their… ehh… warmth," he said, with a suggestive arch of the brows.

Anyone knew that storytelling was thirsty work. Jack angled his head toward the nightstand, with a hopeful look darted between her and the bottle of rum sitting there. Kate obliged, swiveling around on the stool to pour. Properly refreshed, Jack continued.

"A couple years pass, and Gibbs returns to find that the gullible ne'er-do-royal had learned of her _affaire de amor_ with Gibbs—and apparently several others—and put her in the street, both figuratively and literally. Now she was with a toad of considerable lesser means, and was mean to boot.

"Always a gull for flashing eyes and a sad story," said Jack disdainfully, as if he would never be fooled by such trickery, "Gibbs couldn't bear her suffering, so he brought her to Sint Maarten. He'd turned pirate by then, had a pocket full of gold, and in a fit of magnanimity, he bought her a house." He ended with a tilt of his head, indicating their surroundings.

"And set her up in business?" Kate asked. Marguerite's history had been the subject of discussion whenever the house's residents gathered absent its mistress, the talk rife with speculation on past wealth, husbands and rich benefactors.

"It wasn't exactly his first thought," he said grimly, then brightened. "But you'll have to admit, she is an enterprising one," he said with not a little admiration, lifting his glass slightly in salute.

Kate couldn't disagree. Even after allowing for his heedlessness of facts, Jack's story confirmed several questions, although several more arose.

"So, they still …?"

"'Maintain the friendship'." He angled his attention toward the ceiling. "One would have to assume that his shilling is categorically not on the table."

Kate thought that assumption could well be a bit ambitious. Judging from her experience, Marguerite was fair, but her generosity never came without a price.

"How did you and Gibbs eventually meet?"

Jack's discomfort grew at that. He took a drink, rolling it pensively in his mouth as he decided how much to tell. "He started out as part of me crew, but made First Mate within the month; natural-born leader he is. Met him right here; Marguerite and I had… well, you don't need…" He fluffed away the thought with a flip of his hand.

"Yes, I do need." Kate narrowed her eyes, refusing to allow him off the hook he had just impaled himself upon.

His eyes darted several directions, in an effort to avoid her stare. "Bloody woman," he finally surrendered, huffing. "All right! I had taken up residence… _temporarily_. Satisfied?"

"And Gibbs went along with that?"

"Certainly… until he returned," he said defensively, moving his legs under the sheet. "He can be quite the formidable foe, when properly provoked. It struck me that, given Marguerite's profession, it was overreaction on his part." he sniffed. "I still carry the marks."

He displayed an arm, and several hairline scars nearly lost in the creases of his skin. Kate shook her head, marveling. Her understanding of men ended at how they could go at each other hammer and tongs with fists, knives, broken bottles, pistols and swords, and walk away best of friends.

Still, she couldn't help but notice there was one person in town that was categorically not a friend. When she and Jack had encountered Doncker on the street, the latter clearly knew Jack. The tension between them had been palpable, two tomcats hissing, squaring off for battle.

"How is it that you and Doncker dislike each other so much?"

"You don't need to be concerning yourself with that bit of flotsam." Jack drained his glass and shoved it back to her, punctuating his point.

His portentousness tone was concerning. "Jack, I don't want anything happening to that man just because of me."

"No worries, luv." His bare shoulder took a definitive jerk under his hair. He waved her away, the candle flaring on his rings. "Death will be the least of his concerns; he won't be that lucky."

He opened his book, and pointedly began reading. The subject was closed.

They were quiet for some time. Jack read while Kate picked up her sewing and distracted herself with the hypnotic path of the needle. Eventually, their quietude was interrupted by the resumption of voices and thumping from above. Less vigorous at the moment, they quickly built.

Jack's eyes rolled up from his book and lingered on the ceiling. Slowly shaking his head, he sighed. "It's going to be a long night."

"**I** don't want you going into town alone."

The next afternoon, Kate and Jack sat in the dooryard of the brothel, in a nook of shaded greenery nestled between the dovecote and the kailyard. Multi-colored chickens pecking around their feet periodically paused to peer with benign interest as the two of them sat over a chessboard. Jack perforce leaned back in his chair, his ribs and side intolerant of prolonged bending. So he sat with his arms crossed high on his chest… and waited.

Kate was only a marginal foe for him; delaying the toppling of her queen for an hour would have been considered a victory. Kings, queens, pawns, knights and rooks, there was a staggering array of rules that seemed remarkably amorphous with every re-clarification Jack gave. She had attempted to play many times before, both as a child and with Brian; Jack's version didn't seem to compare to any of those.

Playing chess with Jack required the fullest amount of concentration, which was nigh impossible to achieve. Clad in only breeches and a shirt haphazardly stuffed into his waistband, from time to time he would inch a bare foot over to hers and caress her shins with his toes.

His deliberate distractions aside, she found she was too readily lost in watching him, fingers dancing delicately from one game piece to the next, his shoulders moving under his shirt as he reached to make his move, or look up when he felt her staring, and wink. By the same token, she could feel his gaze, laden with anticipation of more than just her next chess move. It was altogether disquieting to have him so close, so much. And yet, she cherished every moment, every irritating, grating second, knowing that soon…

His expression clouded at her mention that one of the shops in town had received a new arrival of ribbons. In light of the fact that he had left her there to live alone, his sudden protectiveness was a little surprising.

"What are you worried about?"

"The same thing you should be," he shot back with an accusing look.

"Maybe I could have Gaubert go with me."

It was a cautiously made suggestion, hazardous of affronting Jack's dignity. On the surface, he was impervious to insult or umbrage, but underneath, he could be as thin-skinned as any other man, and too willing to go to unnecessary measures to remedy it.

She looked up from the chessboard and met Jack's dubious glare. "I rather doubt you would be successful in prying him from Marguerite's clutches," he said.

"I might be able," she said mildly, dropping her attention back to the jet and ivory pieces. "He likes me."

"How charming for the both of you," he sniffed with his usual edge. "It's your move, you know."

"Yes, I know," she said evenly. "Don't rush me."

A rude rumble was his response. He tipped up the jug, emptying the punch they had been sharing into a horn cup and quaffed it down.

As Kate was coming to learn, punch was a common drink in the West Indies, French, Dutch, Portuguese or British alike. A combination of rum—most importantly—fruit juices, a sweetener as in honey, molasses or sugar, and spices, ranging from cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, allspice or a host of others. Its flavor was as varied as the people who made it, each recipe more closely guarded than the secrets of the Vatican.

As it had turned out, Marguerite's recipe was one of the most appreciated, and served it only to her customers, for a price, of course. The house often was a chorus of bells ringing from the rooms, for Minnie and Chloe to fetch more. Made almost daily, the drink was stored in stoneware jugs and stored in the well for cooling.

In spite of Kate's lack of appreciation for rum, she had grown to enjoy a sup on a hot afternoon. As a resident and employee of the house, her consumption was strictly limited, but by some means or guise, into which Kate knew she dared not delve, Jack was allowed free access. Still he groused regularly about what he considered "an adulteration of perfectly good rum."

"How is it that you and Doncker came to dislike so much?"

He gave her a sharp look from under his brows. "I told you, you needn't be worried about him. He's no more worry to you than Beckett. Anytime, darling," he said, gesturing with increased irritability at the board.

Kate had long ago learned that with Jack, it wasn't a matter of what he had said, but what he didn't say that could be most telling… and he had just spoken volumes.

"You went after him, didn't you?" She gave him a sharp look from under her own brows. "Was that why you were gone, to go after Beckett, after I specifically asked, and you promised not to?"

"Yes!" he declared, his eyes rounding then quickly reverted. "I mean, no. That had nothing to do with that scourge of humanity… initially," he added as an afterthought. "He sort of… presented himself, as it were, and who be I to throw such an opportune moment back into the face of Providence?"

"He's dead." In the face of Jack's obfuscation, she needed to be clear on that point.

"Yes!" He plucked a biscuit from the plate, and munched it. "And suffering quite nicely, if you're of a mind to care," he said around the mouthful.

"Did you kill him?"

"No," he shot back. The quirk of the corner of his mouth was grounds for doubt. "But I watched him go to the depths; he's exactly where he belongs."

Kate braced her head in her hands, and berated herself for ever having taken Jack on his word in the first place. It was exactly what she had wanted to avoid, and yet there it was.

"Am I to assume you have plans for Doncker?" she asked, peeking at him through her fingers.

"Let's just say matters are on shifting sands," he said, re-crossing his arms assuredly.

"But you are planning."

He broke into one of those gold-laced smiles designed to charm. "How could I not? Would you please indulge me, and make a move?"

"Don't rush me. You could be the better man, and just walk away," she suggested lightly, cautiously hopeful.

Jack scowled. "Not bloody likely. Might I point out that from all appearances, our fair Monsieur Doncker has no intentions of being _the better man _either?"

Sarcastic, his point was still made. The line was in the sand; the _casus belli_, the male sense of justice coming to a full head. The animalistic response of infringement of one's domain wasn't a new phenomenon to Kate. Her brothers, father, Brian and now Jack had all responded the same. In defense of pride or honor, blood lust, stubbornness or fear, call it what you will, the final effect was always the same.

Drumming his fingers on the table, idly waggling a foot, Jack's attention deviated to the harbor. "Huh."

"'Huh,' what?" Kate looked up, unsure if it really was a point of interest, or another one of Jack's attempts at distraction.

"That ship out there." Narrowing his eyes against the afternoon glare, he studied it more fully. "Something's not right." He spoke more for his own benefit than hers.

Kate craned her head, following the line of his attention. "Like what? You don't like green ships?"

"No." Annoyed, Jack shook his head. "Just something about it that doesn't fit."

"Are you worried?"

"About what?" He waved the matter away, and wrinkled his nose at the jug. "It's nothing; probably a by-product of having to drink this stuff all day."

"If you want rum so badly, go get it yourself," she said intent on the game. "I fetched the table and chairs, the board and the pieces, the drink and something to eat." She angled her head toward the plate of biscuits at his elbow. "The least you could do is go get your own rum."

Demonstrably sticking out his lower lip, he fluttered his lashes. "I'm ill, impaired, unjustly injured in the line of…"

"Forget it, Jack," she sighed.

"Bugger," he muttered. "Are you going to move sometime today? I think I just heard Novella ring the supper bell."

"She did no such thing; that's hours away. Don't rush me."

"Time and tide, darling." He exhaling noisily through his nose, and slumped.

Voices drew their attention, and they looked up to watch a small cluster of men pass the yard's fence. Dandies, they were decked out in their finest gaudery, rollicking with false courage, heading toward the front door.

Jack's foot patted the soft grass, cocking a measuring eye toward her. "All these men about, and you never…?" He allowed the lilt in his voice to finish his query. Even for Jack, the mind could be a horrific place, full of illusions and fears.

A part of her knew that he was asking, just so that she could confirm what he already knew; his lack of trust was hurtful to another part. It seemed like a long time since they had met, but the fact of the matter was she had only known him a grand total of barely four months. Four months, the grand total of a new life, but hardly the stuff of enduring relations.

"All this time, and you don't trust me?"

"I should… I do!" he declared, covering his _faux pas_ quickly. "Trust is a luxury rarely has visited upon me threshold."

Now she was the one to flutter her lashes. "I'm hurt that you would feel compelled to even ask that," she said without heat.

"Too often, darling, I have been a slave to compulsion. What with all these men about, surely sometime or another, you…?" Uncertainty pinched the corners of his eyes, and he suddenly couldn't meet hers. She reached over the board, and took him by the chin, bringing his face back to her.

"What would be the point?" She had her own smile that could charm, and used it. "None of them would be you, so what would be the point?"

The end of his mustache hooked up a corner of his mouth in a crooked grin that broadened as her foot journeyed up his calf. "So, it's that way, is it?"

In overt gallantry, he took her hand and fervently pressed her knuckles to his lips. "Wiser words were never spoken, m'lady."

"What is it between you and Doncker, anyway?" she asked, resuming their conversation and her attempts to choose her next chess move. She was thoroughly convinced now that her encounters with the man had gone far beyond chance meetings. As with Beckett, she had been caught in the middle of Jack and his past.

Jack shifted, looking off in several directions. When it became apparent that she wasn't going to let him off the hook, he sighed. "We had an _arrangement_, all right?"

"'Arrangement?'"

"It was while I was searching for the _Pearl_." Hiding his irritation wasn't one of Jack's gifts. "He gave me a ship…"

"Gave you?"

"Really, darling, you're beginning to sound like Cotton's bloody parrot. If you keep interrupting, I'll never be able to finish. He gave me a ship," he repeated emphatically. "I was to pose as a pirate—no stretch of the imagination there," he preened, "and do what I did best: plunder."

He picked up the cup and peered disappointedly into it.

"He wanted you to raid his ship?" Kate asked, straining to understand.

"I'd steal the cargo, and sink the ship, making sure there were enough survivors as witnesses before sailing away. There's a back bay on Sint Maartin, only a short distance from town by land. I would put in there, unload. It would all be taken back to town, where he would load it on another ship, and send it out again…"

"For you to steal again." Her head was reeling. "What was the point of all this?"

"Insurance," he said, setting down the cup. "He'd inflate the value of the goods, and then collect the losses on that and ship, a double win. How could any claims panel deny him, what with eyewitnesses to verify it?" He chuckled. "Believe me, a merchant is only as good as his broker. Really, luv, by the time you make a move I'm going to be too aged and infirmed to be able to remember how to play."

Kate was shocked that Jack, pirate extraordinaire, would be involved in something as mundane as insurance fraud. "Obviously you two aren't in business anymore, so what happened?"

"I sailed off." His annoyance increased at her failure to comprehend. "I needed a ship; I didn't give a bloody damn about a percentage! Besides, it was only a matter of time, before he found someone who would work for less, and I'd be dead."

"So, you stole his ship."

"Not bad, eh?" he beamed. "What was he going to do, report as a loss the very ship that had sunk his? A bit o' awkwardness there, to be sure. I just took the problem off his hands, so to speak. Wait! I think I just heard something," he whispered, dramatically rolling his eyes, as if straining to hear something. "Yes! There 'tis, a little voice announcing: Hell just froze over!" He divided his glare between her and the board.

"Now you're being nasty," she retorted, unperturbed. She tried to refocus on the chess pieces, but it was blessedly difficult with Jack's incessant finger drumming. "And he's hated you every since?"

"Well, that…" He groped for words, finally settling on, "How was I supposed to know his wife's nephew was on the last one?

Startled, Kate's head jerked up. "You killed him?" Jack was a lot of things, but a plundering killer had never been one.

"Cannonballs are non-selective," he pointed out acerbically. "I'm sure Monsieur Dungheap is probably wondering when I'm going to finally get around to blackmailing him."

"But you didn't… won't."

"Why should I? What does he have that I could possibly want—besides a ship," he added thoughtfully. "Which I don't need—but I might—if ever I had…." His voice faded, screwing his mouth as he followed that train of thought.

Out of desperation, Kate seized a chess piece—a knight—and moved it. Jack leaned closer, looking censoriously down the length of his nose.

"Do you really want to make that move?"

"Certainly." Kate looked down, and then again, her resolve already wavering. "Why shouldn't I?"

"This one over here would be better," he suggested, pointing.

Relenting, she took his advice, returning the knight and moved the other. She had barely taken away her hand, before Jack's bejeweled fingers, with delicate flair, moved his piece and plucked away her queen.

"You told me to make that move!"

He looked up, breaking into a crooked smile. "Of course! How else could I win?"

"You cheat!"

"Of course!" To him, it was a point of pride. "How else am I going to win?"

"You cheat at everything we've played."

It was no exaggeration; she had been forced into playing chess with him out of desperate default. No one else would play with him, and she hadn't been able to resist the forsaken puppy look—How did he do that?—his martyrdom soaring, until she finally relented. Draughts, chess, dominoes, or cards, with equality and impunity he cheated at them all.

The sound of a throat clearing interrupted them. Gibbs stood at the bottom of the porch steps.

"Cap'n." Addressing Jack as he came closer, Gibbs nodded to Kate. Pulling up beside the table, he folded his hands behind his back and shifted uncertainly, straining for what to say next. Kate and Jack exchanged surprised looks; since his arrival, Gibbs had been conspicuous in his absence.

"A fine afternoon, is it not?" he ultimately declared, gesturing skyward.

It was Kate that finally responded. "Yes, it is."

"Surprised you can walk," grumbled Jack under his breath.

A bright red rose from Gibbs' collar and Kate turned her head to cover her smile.

"Perhaps, darling, you should bring us some refreshments." Jack canted his head suggestively toward the empty stoneware. "I'm sure our _guest_ is in dire need of a drink."

Kate rose and was nearly around the house, halfway to the well, before it occurred to her that punch, even as renowned at Marguerite's, was probably the last thing Gibbs would wish to drink. Her steps slowed as her suspicion rose that Jack had asked her to do so, because he wanted her gone. It could only mean one thing: that he and Gibbs had something to discuss that he didn't want her hearing.

As she pulled another jug from the well, her mind raced from one possibility to the next. Coming back around the house, she slowed at the sound of the men's voices.

"The _Pearl's_ as ready as she'll be," Gibbs was reporting. "At least, so far as what's to be had, and the time given."

"She'll make it," came Jack's voice. "Very well, hoist the flag, start gathering the crew."

"T'will take a day, at least, sir."

"Then a day is what we'll take."

Kate's knees buckled. She sagged against the paint-peeled wooden siding, the stoneware gone forgotten in her arms. Caught between unable to breath, and the choking need to cry, a rushing filled her ears that prevented her from hearing anything further. Tears welled, and she squeezed her eyes shut, several rolling hot down her face.

Gibbs rounded the corner, catching them both unawares. Roughly dashing her face dry, Kate sucked in her breath and held it in a desperate attempt to contain her emotion. Uncertain, Gibbs ducked his head and brushed past. She watched over her shoulder as he strode away; there was no mistaking the look of the First Mate of the _Black Pearl_ on a mission to carry out his orders.

Drawing a quivering breath, Kate summoned what little strength remained, and went back towhere Jack sat, busily setting up the board for another game.

"Did Gibbs leave?" she asked, attempting to assume the same nonchalance as Jack; she failed miserably.

Jack frowned at the sight of her. "You must have just passed him."

He followed her with a stony gaze as she went around the table and set down the jug. Unable to face him, she kept her head turned. "No, I didn't see him."

Her voice failed, not nearly as firm as she had hoped. Still, she took a bit of justice from the small lie. Afraid to attempt to say anything further, she took up the awkwardness by filling the cup at his elbow. Mentally, she was giving him one last chance to be honest, one last opportunity to tell her. Her hand shook. He saw it, eyes sharpening.

Stepping back, Kate stood with her hands knotted into the folds of her skirt, struggling to swallow down the ball of bile that had rose, Jack's frown deepening.

"You look bloody awful. Why don't you… ?"

Suddenly, she couldn't bear the sound of his voice. "I think I hear Novella calling."

It was another blatant lie—two, now in as many minutes—and Jack knew it. No servant would dare stand calling someone above her station.

In a whirl of skirts, she spun away, her pain sharpening when Jack didn't stop her.


	50. Chapter 50: The End of Time

**Chapter Fifty: The End of Time**

**Kate** lay staring at the dark ceiling, watching the circling shadows of a moth, feeling as if she were seeing her life in that same aimless spiral. In spite of there being no clock or calendar in her room, she knew exactly the time: it had run out.

Restless, she slipped out of bed. Jack stirred, frowning in his sleep at her absence, but then settled. Padding quietly to the window she sat on the stool. The moon was only halfway through its nightly path. The harbor in clear view, the _Black Pearl_ lay at anchor, an ebony blot against a gunmetal moonscape, a dark queen beckoning her knight.

_If you have to take him, at least keep him safe. You brought him back once, please do it again._

Kate waited. Like watched a pot, the bubble of anguish, that she had kept suppressed since that afternoon, rose. For the last six days, she had kept a tight rein on emotions that threatened to run rampant, but she could no longer pretend. Too soon, the dream would be over, and she would wake up to the nightmare that she had been living for over a year. When at the brink of finally bursting, she wadded up the hem of the curtain, buried her face into it and fell apart.

Jack hadn't intended for her to overhear him and Gibbs earlier that day, of that she was sure. The only question was whether his stealth had been in the spirit of thoughtfulness, while he strove to find a way to tell her, or if he were planning to sneak away, as he had done before. The balance of the afternoon and evening had passed; he had said nothing. If anything, he had been withdrawn.

A week. She had agreed.

And yet, all that time she had hoped that somehow she would be able to change it, or by some miracle, convince Jack to either stay longer—a highly improbable proposition—or take her with him. So far, nothing had been said… because nothing had changed.

A week.

She couldn't help but feel that she had put more credence in that agreement than Jack. And yet, he had done as he had said, stood by his word to the letter, no less, but no more.

She looked around her small room with loathing. Marguerite's was the closest thing to a home, in over five years. The _Black Pearl_ had come close, for a few months. Marguerite's was her home now, but the house had also become her prison.

Sniffing, she leaned against the window's glass to cool her heated face. Tears pooled in the creases of her skin, and spilled over. She was already weary of crying. The cycle was too familiar: the darkness, the staring… and the weeping, to the point of both emotional and physical exhaustion. There had only been one other person in her life that had cost her more tears than Jack; she wondered if there was a life's limit.

She tried to take a deep breath but there was a band around her chest, squeezing like a rat snake with its hapless prey. She realized then that band had been there for over a year, holding her breath, waiting. When Jack had returned, the constriction had eased but only briefly, a day or two, at most. With the completion of their pact, the constriction had returned, full force… and she hadn't breathed since.

She barely heard Jack come up behind her. It was a small room; it had only been a vague hope that he wouldn't hear her. Yet she needed him to—_they_ needed him to; so much to be said, so little time. He lifted a hand toward her. She rose, sidling away, wanting to maintain a safe distance, as if that space might help prevent further pain. Seeming to understand, his hand fell limp to his side.

"You heard." It was more a confirmation than a question, dull with resignation. He sighed, his breath stirring her hair. "In a way, I think I had hoped as much."

Hesitant, he made several starts and stops, before he finally blurted out, "It's because of the crew, Kitty."

She made a skeptical noise deep in her throat at such a thin excuse. She had expected far better from him. "Why don't you just tell the truth for once, Jack? You don't want me with you. Why can't you just come out and say it?"

"Because that wouldn't be the truth." The bluntness of that smacked of surprising honesty. "Bloody hell, don't you know that by now? I came back to _you_, and through Hell to do it, I might add," he said testily.

He shifted sideways in an effort to see her face, but she ducked away. "It's the crew," he said again, with more conviction. "This isn't the old crew; they're new."

"Which means?" She glared at him over her shoulder.

"Which means," he began, enunciating each word, "that I can't have you aboard…"

She stiffened at that. He saw it, and quickly pressed on. "Some of them are fine… probably, but I can't… I won't risk that. There would be six others that I could trust; seven men cannot bear a constant watch on over a hundred. You can caterwaul all you want, but I'll not risk finding you in the hold or the cable tier, ravaged… or worse."

"There's nothing worse than this."

"Aye, there is, and you know it well." The hoarseness of his reproach was evidence of how difficult it was for him to bring up something that he knew to be painful. "You still carry those scars. I'll not be responsible for adding more."

He laid a tentative hand on her arm, stepping closer. "Please, Kitty…"

"Don't call me that," she hissed, jerking away.

"As you wish it, luv…"

"Don't call me that, either."

"Very well." Perturbed but determined, Jack maintained a careful distance. "_Mrs._ Mackenzie, a month, maybe two, is all I'll need."

"That's what you said before," she said bitterly.

"Yes, but that was matters entirely beyond me control. In a month or so, I can weed out the bad seeds, toss out the rotten ones. Gibbs has wrought miracles already; at least they aren't a danger to themselves and the ship, but it's still going to take time."

She heard a small snap. Her heart cracked, because she knew he was right. He didn't need to elaborate; she was all too familiar with the damage that can be wrought by men. Unabashed and unapologetic, Jack had made his decision, no matter how unfortunate or uncomfortable for anyone involved, including himself. He could be a lot of things, but once his mind set on what he wanted, he could be mulish.

"Look at it this way." He risked taking her by the arm, and drew her closer. "You're saving me life, because if anything were to happen to you, I'd have to kill the blighter, and then meself."

"Don't you dare joke about this."

"If I didn't joke, darling, I'd be crying right along with you, and these ribs aren't ready for that."

She watched a moth tapping frantically at the glass in front of her, a force of nature driven, unable to comprehend the invisible barriers it faced, insurmountable no matter how desperately it tried.

Her hand trembled as she roughly swiped her face. "When you came back, you said…."

"I know what I said," he seethed, stiffening. "You think I don't know what this means? But what could happen on that ship would be worse."

Jack drew several breaths, steeling himself. "Will you be here?"

"Don't ask me that." She tried to turn away, but his fingers dug into the flesh of her arm.

"I swear I'll be back. Will you be here?"

"I don't know," she groaned, dropping her head in her hands. "You expect me to spend the rest of my life waiting for you?" Every inner voice screamed otherwise. _What else is there? You knew this was how it had to be._

The grip on her arm let go; from behind came the sound of bare feet on the painted floor, as he went to the table where he had dropped his effects earlier. There was a rustle of clothing as he briefly rummaged.

"I have this compass," he said, coming up behind her.

Shying away, she hunched a shoulder. She didn't need to be reminded of the thing; he had been staring at it the night before he had left, just as he had been doing for weeks. She knew exactly what it was for. It had led him away.

His arm came around in front of her, the ebony and silver box dully gleaming. "I know what I want, and I fought back from Hell, in all its forms, to get it."

"Then tell that thing, because all I've seen it do is spin." Her tear-thickened voice shook with frustration; in too many ways, nothing had changed.

"True enough," he admitted regretfully. "The irony in that was that, in the end, it was doing exactly what it should…"

"Jack, please, I can't bear…"

"It was telling me that what I wanted most was all around me…." He said determinedly over her sobs.

"God, if only I could believe that," she choked, grinding the heel of her hand into her forehead.

"Observe." He brought the box closer, and with an adroit move of his thumb, flipped open the lid.

Unable to bear to look, Kate turned her head, and closed her eyes. Jack stubbornly held his ground. Her curiosity finally prevailed, and through tear-blurred eyes, she could saw the fuzzy-edged needle. She swiped her eyes, but it was no mistake. It steadily pointed toward her, unwavering and solid.

"And if I turn around, will I find the _Pearl_ directly behind me?" she asked skeptically, looking from the dial to him. There was no reason to believe that this wasn't another one of Jack's endless ruses.

Moonlight caught the gold in his smile. "Oh, ye of little faith. And if that were so, it would be so much more better; both of me ladies together, as they should."

Eyes narrowed, his humor faded. "Hide where you will, I'll find you. Anywhere you go, any ocean you sail, any corner of the map you try to hide, I'll find you. You're mine, Kittie." The emphatic snap of the lid closing cracked the heavy night air. "And you know it."

Screwing his mouth with determination more than the discomfort, he seized several hairs and jerked them free of his scalp. His eyes still holding hers, he fumbled for a lock of hair, looking away only long enough to bind his dark strands around hers, knotting it off with a flourish.

"What about you?" Touched by the symbolic gesture, the words came out in a tremulous squeak.

From amid his tumble of cords and braids, he readily seized one that lay on his chest, just above his heart. He held it up in display, the moon glinting on the bright copper binding his sable. She wanted to question the source of his wizardry, but thought those might be questions best left unasked. Still, she wondered how long ago, and what had prompted him to such step.

"We've proof it works; I came back, didn't I?" he said, as if divining her thoughts.

"Rely on these, if you will," he said, touching the hole stones on her necklace. "I'll rely on mine. We're connected, tied, bound; neither of us will ever be complete without the other."

He broke into a heart-stopping grin. "Whether you will it or no, you're stuck with me, and there's naught to be done about it."

She felt her will to resist crumble, and slowly fell apart. He put out his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. He held her close, swaying gently, his little shushing sounds and thumb softly stroking behind her ear having more effect than any potion or nostrum, her weeping soon reduced to shuddering breaths.

As difficult as it was to admit Jack was right, they were bound; half beings without the other. She could feel the subterranean vibrations as he held himself in check. He was afraid, but of what? The answer seemed obvious, but with Jack, assumptions could be lethal. He was the master of leading an unwitting soul to the brink, and then tossing the bait into one of those black holes.

"When were you going to tell me?"

His shoulder moved under her cheek. "I couldn't find a way. I knew something was amiss tonight, when you'd barely let me touch you. I fancied that it meant you knew somehow and I wouldn't have…" His words choked off as he realized the folly of that.

"I'm a coward; not much more to be said on that. But I can't take you with me; there's no more to be said on that either."

She tightened her grip on him. "Don't you ever disappear on me again." Tear-choked and nasal, her threat didn't carry the force that she had intended. "If you do, don't bother coming back; I won't be here."

Jack nodded, solemnly. "I'll consider that a fair warning; no man could ask for more."

"When?" she asked as he wiped her face with the towel from the stand. "Tomorrow?"

His mouth twitched at the discovery, and then relented. "Maybe." The admission didn't come easy. "It depends on how quickly we can gather up enough for a crew. Tonight was to be our last; I should be aboard tomorrow, what with all that there is to be done before we make way."

Kate groped wildly for ways she could coerce Gibbs into smuggling her aboard, but at the same time knew better. He was leaving, and she was staying; there was no way around it.

"Why so soon?" A wave of panic seized her at the realization that she was wasting their last night together. "Why can't you wait another day or two… or three," she added lamely.

"Because that would be two or three days more, before I can come back." Waver in his voice told her that this wasn't any easier on him.

"Just one more, please? I promise, I won't cry or carry on or…"

"Caterwaul?"

"Not that either," she said, struggling to smile. She looked up into his eyes, searching for some spark of hope. "Please? I promise to make it worth your while."

He wanted to laugh, but couldn't. "Considering tonight isn't going exactly as I had imagined." He attempted a smile, but it never reached his eyes. He shook his head in wonderment. "You could negotiate the horns off the Devil. Very well, darling, as you wish it."

He brought her face up to his, and kissed her. Not out of passion or sympathy, or good-bye or regret, it was Jack, resorting to something other than words. She found the solace in the warm, soft of his mouth, and knew then his anguish and fear, resolute in his conviction, while fearing his ability to fulfill his promise. Words came easy, a kiss could say what he couldn't.

"_If I'm not back, I'm dead."_

He was keenly familiar of how twisted fate could be. Intentions, plans, needs and desires could be washed away, dissolved like a wave through sea foam, scattered, never to be seen again.

Her hands ran over the hard lines and curves of his shoulders, and the groves of scars that laced his back, each divot and arch of his body more familiar to her than her own. He vibrated like a taut string, her skin glowing from the heat of his touch. Her breast pressed to his, she felt the echo of his heart in hers, his pulse throbbing at her same rate.

_So alive to her now; so soon to be lost._

The thought caught her unawares. Like a stab from Jack's sword, it sliced away every other thought. Sagging, she clung to him tighter, sobbing anew.

She sniffed hugely. "I'm sorry." Even that came out a garbled mess. She was beginning to realize his wisdom of having disappeared the last time, rather than lingering to say good-bye.

"No more than I," he said genuinely. "S'all right." He smiled, absent any humor. "You're weeping for two. 'Tis a tall order."

She looked up to see his eyes filling, lids fluttering to blink the wateriness away. "You too?"

"Great minds, eh? I told you, you're never alone."

Wetting the towel in the ewer, Jack dabbed her face. He kissed her on the nose, and then crossed his eyes, and she sputtered a giggle. "Ah, that's me girl," he said, pleased.

Making a face, he gingerly wiped his tear-slicked chest, his lip curling in mock disgust. "Be wrinkled before me time with all this."

He was working his magic. She settling against him again, allowing him to quell her fears, lifting her away for at least one more time.

"Come back to bed, Kittie," he said in a throaty purr.

"I can't sleep… I don't want to sleep." Knowing Jack, sleep was the last thing on his mind, but given her emotional state, she inclined toward either prospect.

"Very well." He exhaled heavily through his nose, and reached for his shirt. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"If you must know," he began pragmatically, his head popping clear of the shirt opening. "I know where Marguerite keeps her private stock, and she usually has a very fine brand of port. It will be just the ticket for this melancholia. If we're to be up all hours, we might as well have something decent in which to drown our sorrows."

Thumbing a tear from her cheek, he rubbed the wetness between his thumb and forefinger, scrutinizing it. "There has to be some kind of acid in a woman's tears, because they can certainly eat through to a man's heart."

**Jack** woke abruptly to a strange pounding. At first, he thought it to be his head. God knew he had woken enough times in his life with a head fit to burst. This would only be one more in a long sequence. Gradually, as the fog of sleep cleared, he negated the persistent beat as being cerebral, but he could still feel it. Wound? He experimentally flexed his body and winced. Yes, it was still there, a throbbing burn, but categorically not the source of his vexing botheration.

Sound, that was it! Not a feeling or sensation, but sound. But where in the bloody hell was it coming from?

Cracking open one eye, he cautiously rolled from his side to his back, balefully inspecting his surroundings. Kate was gone; the small space beside him empty. It was a markedly unusual, and a lot disquieting to find her gone; he was always first to rise, and with good reason. He took great joy in watching her sleep. She took sleep very seriously, frowning as if it required some great concentration. Having her next to him of a morning was his anchor; it gave the rest of his day—his life direction, setting his course with utmost clarity.

Turning his head, he sniffed the pillow. It still smelled of her, that heady mix of her natural sweetness and bedding. Like a rutting boar, he could find her with just that as his guide, although his cock proved to be better than that wretched compass in pointing the way.

Groaning, he stretched luxuriously and lay spread-eagle. Staring at the ceiling, he basked in the ebbing glow of completion. A quick glance toward the window told him it was mid-morning. Amazing, the feeling could linger this long! It had been barely daylight when he drew Kate to him, inhaling her sleepy warmth. Absentmindedly scratching his balls, he smiled. He could still feel her there, hot and slick. The woman certainly knew how to leave her mark.

Rubbing one eye, he yawned. Under the best of circumstances, it took every ounce of energy he had to bed her. Bloody gunshot had ebbed his strength, had to finish lying there like a beached fish, flopping around. Lucky for him, Kate came to his aid, with that lovely mouth. He had been asleep, before the old dodger had a chance to soften.

Damn! There it was again! What the devil was that pounding?

With a grunt, he pushed up from the bed and shuffled to the window. It seemed to be coming from outside. His hand flexed, longing for his pistol. It might be was just as well that he didn't have it; probably would shoot the bastard if he did. Marguerite tended to go a mite testy at such things, entanglements with the authorities, and all.

The pounding came again just as he batted the curtains aside. He shoved his head out the window, glaring for the offender. There, just below, standing at a barrel was….

"Kate?"

"Good morning!" The chickens picking at her feet peered upward, following her gaze as she twisted toward the window. "Awake, finally?"

"Obviously," he grumbled. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Pounding." She held up a small mallet in exhibition.

"I'm not daft. I can damned well see that!"

"Then what did you ask for?"

Rubbing his hand brusquely over his face, he made a guttural sound in the back of his throat. "Deliver me."

"What?"

"Nothing, darling," he called back, pasting on an artificial smile. "Do you have to do that quite this early?"

"If I wait too long, the color fades."

"What in God's name…?" he moaned, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.

"You might want to consider at least putting a shirt on." Squinting one eye closed, she shielded the sun from her face with a hand. "You're naked, in case you haven't noticed."

He glanced down at himself, and then scowled at her. "It's a whorehouse! Nobody cares!"

"A bit of a grump this morning, aren't we?"

"I was fine, until some bloody, gigantic woodpecker began pounding away with a sledge just outside me bedroom window."

"The rest of the world rose a while ago; you're the only one laying about in bed."

"I'm injured."

Sputtering a laugh, she shook her head, waving him away. "I'll come up," she sighed, lacking any suggestion of sympathy.

"Don't bother," he pouted. "I'll come down."

Snatching his breeches from the chair, he jerked them on, grumbling. The world seemed wholly unsympathetic of late, by his way of thinking. Not of a mood to bother with his shirt, he tossed it over his shoulder as he made his way down the stairs and through the house. Several of the women were still at the breakfast table; a chorus of female voices chimed a 'Good Morning, Jack' as he passed the dining room door.

"Good morning, ladies!" He paused to sweep his courtliest bow, showing everyone just how amenable he could be of a morning. The effort was cut short by a sharp stab in his side. Damn! He didn't remember whores smelling so much like bad wine and perfume.

He shook the thought from his mind, and pressed on through the kitchen, and to the dooryard, pulling up short to avoid colliding with Kate on the step.

"Here." She unceremoniously thrust a cup of coffee in his hand, arching a heavy, auburn eyebrow. "It would seem someone is in desperate need of this, this morning."

"It would seem the pot is calling the kettle black, this morning," he shot back, and then took a drink. It was elixir, but be damned if he would allow her to know that.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She turned, heading back to the barrel, the scene of the heinous crimes against his repose.

"Don't be so defensive, darling." Narrowing an accusing eye, he followed on her heels. "I recall more than one morning, when someone I just happen to know, who for all intents and purposes shall remain nameless, woke up well beyond the dark side of Damnation; made it a positive Purgatory for everyone about."

"Sorry to be such a burden," she said good-naturedly. "I'll just make sure I sleep somewhere well away. Heaven forbid I should cloud your sunny mornings!"

Holding the cup well aside, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. "Sleep somewhere else, and I _will _be in Purgatory," he murmured, seeking the crook of her neck, evoking a squeak when he nipped her ear lobe.

God, she felt good in his arms! From the first, she had felt a good fit, custom-made, like the grip of a sword. And her smell was there too, mixed with flowers and green, but her—all her—and no mistake about it.

"Pace yourself," she warned, wriggling her bottom; the vixen knew exactly how. "You're supposed to be recuperating; tax yourself and you could have a relapse."

"It's been ages since I've had you."

"It's been hours," she corrected tolerantly over her shoulder.

"Can't think of anything better from which I'd prefer to die."

Maintaining his firm grip, he propped his chin on her shoulder to idly watch as she picked up the mallet, and arranged a folded piece of cloth on the barrelhead.

"What are you doing?" he asked, mildly perplexed.

She gave the cloth several solid whacks. "I'm flower pounding."

"I know I'm going to regret asking," he said to himself, "but what, dear luv, is flower pounding?"

"You put flowers in here." Unfolding the cloth, she displayed a pulpy mash of what he could only assume were once flowers. "Then you put your thread on top," she went on, groping through the slog to come up with a small lump of what he could only assume to be thread. "And then, you pound."

"And what, pray tell, me darling lovely," he said, bending to inspect the barrel top more closely, "is the purpose of this exercise?"

"I'm dying thread," she declared proudly. A gesture of her head indicated a makeshift drying rack of a branch suspended between two posts, from which hung several dozen loops of thread. Wafting in the breeze, they displayed a broad variety of hue and colors.

"What happened to all the thread Prudence gave you?" he asked as he ran a finger along the fiber rainbow.

As he took a drink of coffee, he stole a cautious look her way over the cup's rim. As much as Kate wore her emotions on her sleeve, she was also a marvel at putting the worst behind her. Given what he knew of her life, that gift would be a blessing. Her eyes—they were nearly blue just then—were usually her window, what little she would allow to be seen. Those cursed eyes would rarely let him see far. Bloody unfair, that! They could see straight to his soul, and yet…

There was still a bit of puffiness at their corners, and red-rimmed, as was her nose, but other than that, there was little sign of aftermath from the night before. Her roughened velvet laugh rang clear and honest in the dooryard; that had to be a good sign. Gone, but not forgotten then, to be sure. She was trying her best, as was he. This wasn't easy.

A month! How the bloody hell did he thing he was going to manage that? Worse yet, would she be there when he came back? She had said as much… more or less. He'd pressed for more—a pledge, a promise, an oath, something—but for naught. She'd been elusive, at best.

_Learned that from the master, did she not?_

He looked down at his feet to find a chicken that had paused, giving him a beady, one-eyed scrutiny.

_Bugger off!_ He thought, glaring. _Not the same._

_Ah, but it is, is it not?_

He growled threateningly under his breath like a cat. Its point made, the chicken resumed its chickenly duties.

_The bloody beast had a look about it; probably sent by someone, to do… something or another._

"That was over a year ago," she said tolerantly. "Most of it is gone, and there are still colors I could use."

He blinked, jerked back to their conversation as Kate paused to bat a strand of hair away with the back of her wrist. "Ma Mere told me about using flowers or berries, or leaves or roots for dying," she said.

"Bloody ingenious!"

Using elements of nature for dying was certainly nothing new; coloring textiles was often an expensive and exhaustive process. Ask any captain with a hold full of indigo bricks or _pastillas_ of cochineal. Such a direct approach was a novelty.

"So, all you need is white thread?" he asked, taking another drink.

"Not necessarily. I've been experimenting with starting with a colored thread, and then dying over that, and then another color over that. There's no end to what you can do!"

His smile grew at her exuberance, even more so at the excitement and pride in her eyes. He found thread to be altogether boring, but her enthusiasm was contagious. She gave off a fervent glow that was only equaled by when she grasped his cock. It was a rare gift to see her so excited; he took joy in her joy

Caught up in that thought, he went to hug her, but recoiled at the sight of her discolored fingers, flower mash hanging from her nails.

"Does that come off?" he asked warily.

"With time," she said, flicking away some of the larger globs. "Sometimes, it takes days. There was one berry I used that left me with purple fingers for weeks."

He took another step away, shrinking from her touch. "Does it stain everything it touches?"

She considered for a moment then chuckled. "Is there something you'd like to have dyed?" Wriggling her hag-like fingers, she inched closer, advancing as he shied away. "I could leave some very intriguing fingerprints."

"I don't believe I like the sound of that," he said, retreating in the face of her advance.

"You've never considered having green or yellow…parts?"

"Me parts are already a very lovely color." Still backtracking, his goods tightened. "Bloody woman, you'd do it too, just to spite me."

"No, just mark you," she said, with that throaty laugh of hers again as she stalked him. "I wouldn't have to worry about you wandering about; not many women would allow a bright orange cock anywhere near them."

A part of him knew these were idle threats, and yet his goods tightened despite those assurances. It would be just like her, some convoluted female sense of justice, to mark him, lest the call of the flesh call a bit too loudly. Whores tended to be a tolerant lot, but he doubted many would be willing to overlook something so perverse… at least without being paid extra.

"You know bloody well, I'm not going to _wander_ anywhere, so no worries there." He swallowed hard, groping for another tactic. "Besides, you're not strong enough, I could fight you off." He jerked a nod, pleased with the strength of that point.

"Hmm, maybe," she mused, thoughtfully. "But then again, you'll have to go to sleep some time."

He came up against the kailyard's fence, trapped. "I'm injured. You shouldn't worry an injured man; it could cause damage. I need peace and rest."

"Go ahead, rest!" Holding her hands out to her sides, she leaned closer, pinning him against the fence with her hips.

"What's it worth?" She teased him, her tongue tickling his mustache. "Bargain with me, Captain, or it's orange balls for you by morning."


	51. Chapter 51: Catalogues

**Chapter Fifty-one:** **Catalogues **

**It** proved to be an odd day for Kate, an otherworldly, disembodied experience.

In the spirit of self-preservation, she carefully removed any emotion, thought, or feeling that hinted it might prove too fragile, and placed it safely away from what promised to be an agonizing day. A shattered heart would have meant devastation, and so she set next to the others with the same care.

At the same time, it was a day of collection, harvesting every look, word or moment, hoarding before a famine, storing up what is required to survive. She saw Jack struggle, with the same battle, and from that she drew the strength. Through the day, he was prone toward falling off in mid-sentence, drifting away into blank stares. More than once she turned to find him intently watching her with a remote look. She couldn't blame or reproach him; she caught herself doing the same thing. As much as she didn't want to let go of him, Jack seemed much of the same mind. Hovering, they reached to touch often, just to assure the other was there. And so they busied themselves, with what they could.

Kate carried on an internal argument of how much better… how much easier Jack's absence was going to be. At least now, she wouldn't have to endure the derision and scorn from the women. She had proven that her faith in him hadn't been folly.

She wouldn't allow herself to think in timeframes; that would be torture. And yet, how could she not notice the change of the moon and tides, the garden's blooms fade, or the chicks in the yard go from yellow fuzz to feathers, and not realize the passing of time? Her own moon cycles were too irregular to be of any guidance, but with nearly twenty women residing in a single household, the monthly increments were difficult to overlook.

She steeled herself anew. She had done it once, survived; she could do it again. He would be back. This time she knew it, and that knowledge would be her strength. She had to believe that—believe him. Otherwise…



"**I** have a surprise for you," Jack announced.

When they returned to their room, it was well past the midday meal. Under Jack's close scrutiny and specifications, Kate's hands had been cleaned of the smashed flower remnants.

Kate's hopes soared that he'd had a change of mind. That would have been too good to be true; life rarely lavished her with such kindness.

He read her face, and sobered. The furrows between his brows deepened under the edge of his scarf. "No, not that. The die is cast, darling. I can't; woe that I could, but…" His voice trailed off, his Adam's apple moving as he swallowed.

"Instead," he went on, brightening. "I'm thinking turnabouts, in ever so many and infinite ways, should be fair play." A glint touched the amber in his eyes as he rolled them dramatically. "I've been bathed and pampered for a week. I've watched you tend me until you swayed with weariness, and then smile with utter tenderness with I've asked for a drink."

He steered her backwards toward the bed, the tenderness of which he had just spoke filling his eyes then. "Well, luv, now it's your turn."

As if on cue, there was a familiar, coded rap at the door. In came Minnie, half-bent under the burden of two copper boilers filled with steaming water. Close on her heels came Chloe, weighted by a basket towering with towels, and a large pitcher under one arm. Once rid of their burdens, Minnie and Chloe both instantly excusing themselves, curtsying and then quietly pulling the door closed behind them.

"The absolute essences of a lady," he declared with a courtly sweep of his hand.

"I'm no lady…"

He cut her short with a finger to her lips. "We'll be relying on the resident expert in these matters. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I am most beholding. I'd ply thee with jewels and silks, riches fit for a queen, but it would seem the gift that would bring your greatest joy—and smile—would be this." He bowed elaborately, beckoning her toward the basket.

She lifted the towels, and was met with an intoxicating fog of rose, jasmine, lavender, lemon balm and elderflower, mingled with spiced rum from the pitcher. On top sat a bar of finely-milled soap, colorful with bits of embedded flower petals. Under that was a black lacquer tin of talc, and a flowered porcelain jar of cream, rich with honey and almond.

He waited, watching anxiously as she picked up each object. "Ah! There's what I've been waiting for." A bit open-mouthed, she realized that she was indeed smiling hugely.

There was a small bundle of candles, earthy-sweet with beeswax as opposed to the more familiar tallow-based ones.

"In case we tarry so long, we might need extra light," he said, divining her question. He touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth. "Although illumination might not necessarily be what we'll be needing."

"Where did you…? I mean, how did you manage…?"

"Ah-ah!" Jack wagged a reproving finger, already busy tugging free her laces, and the ribbon of her shift, he dismissed her questions with a loose-wristed wave. "Gift horses and all that, darling."

He scurried about with the deliberation of a person who had carefully considered every aspect: arranging the stool, placing the basin, smoothing the pillow and straightening the bedclothes. His intentions grew increasingly clear as he carefully arranged her on the bed.

"You're up too high. No, not there. Ah! Now just over a bit. No, not clear over there like you're afraid of me, or something! Ah! There! That's me darling!"

"You realize that there is a tub downstairs," she asked while he filled the basin.

He smiled at her through the curls of steam. "You needn't remind me. Believe me," he said emphatically, "it crossed me mind. But I also recognize me limitations. I am a man of weaknesses, a slave to the flesh. One look at you in that tub, with your hair floating about your lovelies, and those lovely legs…" He bit his lip, and lamentably shook his head. "I could never resist diving in. Me personal physick would have me by the curlies before I could plead me case."

"Inconsiderate wench."

"Aye well, don't be too judgmental. I have ways of softening her up." A vague gesture dismissed the thought. "Besides, this will be so much more… intimate."

The purr in his voice brought a rush to her face, and elsewhere.

Flipping his hair back behind his shoulders, he wetted the sponge and squeezed it out. As he brushed the soap over it, he wore a meditative and slightly distant look. And then he began.

It was heavenly!

If a conjurer had asked her of three wishes, a bath might have been one of them. One administered by Jack was quite another issue, one that she hadn't previously imagined. Besides, her imagination wasn't near as good as this!

The most heavenly part possibly was watching him. He'd never gotten around to putting on his shirt, off-handedly tossing it aside upon returning to their room. Now, as he sat on the edge of the bed, with the quiet clatter of beads and metal bits, she followed the twist of his body, tightly wound, lithe and elegantly built, and the muscles flexing under his tattoos.

It was a mild shock when she realized that he was memorizing her, cataloguing her, and she knew then exactly what the separation was costing him. Once, seemingly a lifetime ago, they had bathed each other in their cabin on the _Pearl_. That had been different; it had been over-shadowed by a powerful need, a coming together, melding and merging.

This was good-bye, every touch lingering a fraction longer than usual, knowing it could well be the last. He traced every bone and curve, the knobs of her fingers and spine, the arch of her foot and small of her back or slope of her throat, pausing to encircle her wrists and ankles, closing his eyes at each, committing each detail to memory.

She recalled a similar ritual the night before he left. Unbeknownst to her, he had been taking his leave then. He had said now was for her, but in so many more ways, it was for him, atoning, seeking her patience and faith. It was a tactile pact, an accord; to submit was to accept.

His soap-slicked hands, a cat's-whisker touch skimmed her ribs and legs. Loose-jointed and languid, her eyelids grew heavy. With gentle thoroughness, he draped her over his shoulder like a rag doll and did her back, following the arch of each rib. Every finger was addressed with utmost care, kissing each tip. When he came to her wedding ring, his expression faltered, his thumb pensively brushing the carved silver. The mouth that had been so somber and immobile moved, murmuring something, and then he re-gathered himself and moved on.

Eyelids lowered, the sable lashes veiling his thoughts, he was absorbed, and yet teased: a playful nip on her shoulder, a kiss at the back of her knee. At times there was a glimmer of a smile; others, he wouldn't meet her gaze.

His dark eyes gone tender with mischief, they held hers as he washed her breasts, slowing with deliberation, nudging her legs apart to gently wash her tendermost places. He was taking his time, as if time was all they had. It was a decadent consumption of a precious commodity.

When she thought she could bear it no more, she reached to pull him to her, but he resisted, quietly chuckling. "All in good time, luv," he said, not in denial, just delay, but promising so much more.

Finished, he toweled her dry until she glowed. The cream was next, a luxuriant emollient of honey, rosewater, almond oil. The corner of his mustache lifted faintly as he scooped out a generous amount, and meticulously revisited every inch of her body, carefully massaging between every finger and toe, until she felt full and ripe.

She laughed when he sneezed into the powder tin, an explosion of jasmine-scent blanketing his hair and face in a ghoulish coating of white. When he opened his eyes and smiled, he looked like a gold-toothed skeleton, his nostrils two dark slits.

She took the sponge, and cleaned his face, taking care to wipe away the Kohl from around his eyes.

"There you are," she whispered, smiling. "I've missed you."

It had been a very long time since she had seen him unmasked. The amber highlights in the walnut-colored eyes became more dominate. Gentle, even a bit shy, they were aged beyond their years, by hardship of every sort, distrust, betrayal, treachery, and violence all unwanted guests. Incongruous with the rest of him, they were hostage in an existence for which they were never intended.

Her skin radiated, flush with a heat from more than just the water, he plied her with punch, and they drank from the same cup. He produced a palm-sized book of Spanish love poems from the basket, his graveled voice lowered to a sueded rasp. As he read, she listened, she toying with his hair, and tracing his shapes.

When they could bear it no longer, he put down the book and turned to her. They kissed for some time, a languorous exploration of tongues and hands. He carefully rolled, taking her with him, the quiet tinkling of silver marking their movement. They moved against each other like eels, effortlessly slithering on the residual skin of cream, her sensitized skin tingling, each pore alert to the smallest sensation.

He brought her again and again in long, rolling sequences, bubbling and bursting like champagne, until she begged for no more. Stretched comfortably between her legs, he rested his cheek on her thigh and waited, a pair of sable-and-amber eyes watching over the damp auburn curls for when she had sufficiently recovered. The second time, her world spiraled to a single point at the base of her spine, where it stopped in agonizing paralysis that, when it finally broke free, left her shattered and rubber-limbed.

When her joints were no longer jelly, she carefully rolled to rise over him. "Your turn."

"No, this was to be for you."

The oiliness on her hands helped bring his silken stiffness quickly alive. "Mmm…. Is this all for me?"

He started to respond, but she slipped lower and suddenly speech became superfluous.

She knew his body now; knew the way of it, every curve and groove, length of bone and scripted patch. It was a warrior's body, scarred and battered not only by the blade. She could call him with a touch, or a look, make the pulse in the vein at his throat throb, and make him shudder and gasp at the end. She knew the places that made him laugh, and the ones that brought his breath short. It was hers, as it had been for no others.

"Where did you learn that!!" he wheezed. His eyes clamped shut, then bulged open.

She laughed softly, and kissed the tender skin just inside crest of his hip. "I had to do something with my time. What do you think all these women sit around and talk about, knitting and pie baking?"

Lifting his head to peer down his torso, he arched a speculative brow. "What else did you learn?"

She resting her chin on his abdomen, and batted her lids. "What's it worth to you?"

He dropped his head, looking toward the ceiling, his throat moving as he swallowed. "Me coin purse is on the stand. Take it all, darling!"



**They** spent the day in bed. They read and talked, dozed and drank, and pleasured in varying sequences and combinations, consciously maintaining a constant connection, afraid to let go, desperate for every additional moment.

Loud voices outside their door broke their idyll, just as the breeze stirred the curtains, marking its nightly shift to off-shore. Suddenly, Kate couldn't bear being indoors with Jack; she didn't want to share him with a houseful of people. He seemed too much a creature of air, sky and sea to be confined in a small room. When she closed her eyes, she didn't seek visions of windows and walls; that wasn't him.

Hastily dressed, they crept down the servants' steps. Days earlier, they had found the front stairs to be unwise. It seemed Jack could go nowhere without encountering someone—the women notwithstanding—who knew him, most especially in the front parlor of the West Indie's best brothel, and wouldn't be able to extricate himself from their clutches without a tale or two, amid several toasts.

Being the height of business hours, the late meal at the house was often casual, served with an eye toward what could be eaten briefly.

"Time is money," Marguerite had intoned more than once to those thought to be malingering. "Sitting around eating is money lost both ways."

Cold fish, meat pies, mushroom and leek tarts, filled rolls, biscuits, or anything that could be consumed hastily, preferably without sitting, was common fare to be found on the sideboard, protected from insects with layers of gauze and sprigs of mint, pennyroyal and hyssop sprinkled about for further deterrence.

Jack procured a basket from the kitchens, and in it they piled their pilfered, culinary treasure from the sideboard, along with several bottles of ale. Giggling like two puckish children, they snuck out the back door. Jack snatched a horn lantern from the doorpost, and sheet from the clothesline, ignoring Kate's warnings of what Marguerite might do if the bed linen was to be damaged.

"Then don't be too rough on me, eh?" Jack leered.

He led them to the water's edge and a secluded nook, where they spread the sheet. Pragmatic as ever, Jack had grabbed the beeswax candles from Kate's room, and stuck them in the sand at the four corners, and in the dancing light, they enjoyed their repast.

Propped against a tree, he sat with his arm resting on a bent knee. Outside did indeed suit him; he was in his element, overlooking the water, with the sound of the waves as their backdrop. He was visibly more relaxed, and ate with more enthusiasm than usual. The corners of his eyes would crinkle, his laugh becoming more genuine.

It was a rarity, but it happened then. On a few isolated occasions, they had been able to be together, and the world dissolved, wherever they happened to be, their island. The pretenses and facades peeled away, and became just she and Jack. Not captain or pirate, or renowned brigand… just Jack. They could talk and laugh, and tell each other their hearts, foibles and failings, dreams and aspirations, and fears and fantasies. They kissed and familiarly fondled, not in suggestion, but because it felt right.

His hands illustrated and punctuated as he told more of his convoluted lore of the constellations. Many nights on the _Pearl_ he had done the same, but he possessed a bottomless repertoire of tales that were a staggering tangle of Roman, Norse, Mayan, Chinese, and Fijian.

His hands illustrated and punctuated as he related his convoluted lore of the constellations. Many nights on the _Pearl_ he had done the same, but he possessed a bottomless repertoire of tales that were a staggering tangle of Roman, Norse, Mayan, Chinese, and Fijian.

"D'ye see that star up there?" He pointed skyward, Kate leaning to follow the angle of his arm. "That's the Boreade's star."

"I thought it was the North Star."

"No, no! Rampant misconception perpetrated by those misinformed misfortunates who are unenlightened."

"How sad for them. Are they aware of this shortness in their education?"

"Probably not, but you shan't hold one responsible for simple ignorance. I, however, have the unique privilege of being one of the few in this world—and maybe even beyond—that knows the true identity, and the true story."

Kate's premonition that a story was coming proved to be valid. It was difficult not to miss Jack winding up for one.

"Boreade, the god of the north wind, lived in a time when the night sky was naught but a black shell, a wall between the here and the there. Came the day, Boreade sought a bride, someone to bear his children, and carry on his line. Gods are always concerned about such things," he added as a sage aside.

"Ah," she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

"He searched the heavens, but could find no one who fit his fancy. So he asked Artemis—knowing that she was a huntress and would have a sharp enough spear—if she would allow Boreade to look below, and see if there might be someone suitable to be his wife. Artemis, being an innate romantic, obligingly poked a hole in the night sky." He gestured with his chin, indicating the star was the result.

"Boreade spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon, and he came down to Earth, wooed her and married her. Except he overlooked one small detail: she was mortal, and couldn't go with him. So he went back to the heavens—lest he lose his godliness—and used that hole, every night to watch her as she slept.

"One night, he looked down, and found her lying with another man. Broken-hearted, Boreade flew into a rage—most gods weren't blessed with self-control. He took Artemis' spear, and stabbed the sky…"

"Creating all the other stars."

"Exactly. But the original one, the first one, still exists, for anyone up there, who wants to look down." He brought his gaze down from the sky to her, his eyes gone ebony. "If anything should… if you ever wonder as to me whereabouts, just look up of a night. I'll be up there, watching."

They felly quiet, as they had many times before, enjoying each other's company. The candles' warm halo marked their island in the midst of the moonlight's silver. Having burned down into molten pools in the sand, their flames puttered and flapped in the breeze, their shadows wavering. A nightjar's querulous cry came from high above, in search of its nightly insect feast.

Lying on her side, head propped in her hand, Kate felt the weight of Jack's gaze and looked up to find him staring, his fire-rimmed profile sharp against the night's studded velvet.

"What are you looking at?"

"You." Jack paused to swallow, in wide-eyed awe. "With your hair all in a maddening tangle, and your breasts peeking out, with your nipples like cherry pits." He bit his lip, and slowly shook his head. "God, you're so lovely."

She felt her face heat.

"You've the loveliest arse," he murmured, tracing the curve of her hip.

Caught off guard, her blush deepened. "You never mentioned that before."

"Didn't I?" He frowned demonstrably, and shook his head, pretending to be puzzled. "Huh, should have. That first day, I said to meself…"

"I was wrapped in a quilt; you couldn't have seen much."

"Ah, but you forget," he said, holding up an exclamatory finger. "We brought you aboard, soaking wet, in naught but a pitifully thin shift that was ripped clear to…"

"And men being men…" she teased, prodding his leg with a toe.

"We did the only manly thing: we wrapped you in me coat."

Her smile faltered. "I don't remember that." Scared, half-drowned and shocked, much of her first day or two aboard the _Black Pearl_ was a blur.

"I do," he said confident smugness. "_All_ of it." He winked. "Made an impression, you did."

His eyes went distant, and he smiled crookedly, the tails of his scarf stirring at his bare shoulders. "God, I wanted, so badly I could barely walk; limp was more like it."

He shifted slightly, his cock enlivening. "You were so brave, covered in goose-flesh, dripping all over me rug."

He looked up at her and his eyes softened. "And then you cried yourself to sleep in me arms…and I was lost. You could have asked for the moon… hell, I would have given you the _Pearl,_ if you'd asked."

"But I didn't… luckily." She ran a finger along his arm. "You could have had me then, you know."

"Christ, don't tell me that," he groaned, then his mouth dropped. "Surely not! Doesn't speak much for your scruples, if you were ready to give yourself to a perfect stranger without so much as a…"

"Well, fair enough, but within a week, or so." She found it amusing that he would be so scandalized, and yet he seemed to regard her with a different standard than himself or others.

He shook his head. "It took a prodigious amount of forbearance to keep from taking you, right there on the spot."

Something caught his eye. He looked over his shoulder toward the edge of the shadows. Under a low-growing clump of sea holly, the light caught in pinpoints on the stalk-eyes of several land crabs. Drawn by the smell of their foot, but leery of the light, they crabs looked on interestedly.

"Ah, so you're still following me, eh?" Kate was only mildly surprised that Jack would be talking to crabs. "I have no idea where your mistress is, so bugger off."

"Why did you wait?" asked Kate, when Jack's attention came back around to her. "Surely you knew?"

"I wasn't positive; I feared you'd either go running off, or do something daft, like jump overboard." His concerns weren't unfounded: she had jumped from the _Melody, _when the _Black Pearl_ had attacked. Given the opportunity and the motivation, she might well have done it again.

He drained the bottle of ale they had been sharing, and pitched it aside. It landed in the sand with a hollow thunk. Seizing another, he pensively stroked the stoneware with his thumb. "What did you fancy?" he asked shyly

She sat up, facing him, resting her chin on her arms across her bent knees. The beach was a pale, ghostly blur behind him. The breezed touched the palm fronds, lifting the stray hairs at his shoulders.

"You're handsome you know," she said, evoking a sputter and scoffed from him. "Surely you've been told that before?"

"Oh, aye," he said, with overt innocence. "A couple of times… after I paid her."

They laughed quietly.

"Why do you hide under all that…?" she asked, indicating the pile of his clothing, hastily tossed earlier.

Stalling for time to arrange his thoughts, Jack broke off a corner of a roll, and tossed it toward the crabs still waiting patiently, and they scuttled hungrily after it.

"In this world," he said, indicating everything beyond where they laid, "'tis bloody difficult to demand the respect of others, when they're calling you 'darlin'". His voice held the strain of experience.

"Jealousy?"

"Not so much," he conceded reluctantly, shifting. "It's just seen as a weakness. Envy. Distrust—lots of that. I discovered the best way to remove those issues from the table was to meet the blackguards as equals."

"But you're smarter than most of them."

"A bit more difficult to hide, but there are ways, if you're crafty enough." He winced at that.

She considered further, watching him watch her. How does one pinpoint what attracts them to another? A laugh? A smile? A look? A moment? All of the above? "I was touched that you didn't come after me that first night."

"Very well," he said, nodding amiably. "You appreciated me manners. That would have done Mum's heart good to hear that."

"Your eyes," she said, tracing the dark arch of his brow.

She could feel the subterranean vibrations as he held back a laugh. And realized her blunder: the very first day, he had accused her of having cursed eyes, being able to see through to his innermost regions. It would seem he was right.

The Kohl hadn't been replaced; those same gentle eyes were there now, narrowed slightly at the corners, wondering what she was going to say next. His defenses were gone, the curtains lifted, allowing her access to everything there was to see.

"I could see… that inside you were a good man…"

"Praise the heavens that you weren't inclined toward blabbing that about! I would have been mutinied upon the next day. I never would have lived to bed you."

At one point, conversation lagged, his tales gone forgotten. Their gazes met, and there was nothing more to be said. The night sky and vault of stars overhead, and the moon's silver liming his shoulders as he made love to her. That was Jack. That would be her memory.



**Returning** to the house, they stumbled up the back steps, giddy with exhaustion and drink, loudly shushing each other as the house slept. The back door had been thoughtfully left unlocked. A light showed under the door of Gaubert's room off the kitchens, when they passed, waiting up until they returned, so that the house could be secured.

With fumbling hands, they undressed each other and fell into bed in a tangle of limbs that would have to wait until the 'morrow to be sorted out.


	52. Chapter 52: Making Your Mark

**Chapter Fifty-two: Leaving Your Mark**

**Kate** wormed deeper into the bedclothes, experimentally moving her bottom. That small gesture ordinarily would be sufficient to trigger Jack, even in the depths of slumber, move closer and bring his arm around her. Even in the extra space of her bed, they still slept as they had on the _Pearl_, fitted like two spoons. His injuries had changed their ways a bit, the broken ribs requiring that he lie half-upright. Starting out that way, sometime in the night he would work his way around, and by morning, they would be as always.

She knew it was early; the air bore that lighter, freshness of morning, the sun's path across the floor indicating as much. She waited, and then squirmed further, searching for his warmth and the reassuring press of Jack at her back. It was then that she found the bed was empty.

At first, she dismissed it, thinking he had gone to the privy, or maybe for coffee, as he did many mornings. Like an annoying bee buzzing around one's head, a thought nagged, until she finally sat up. Shoving the hair from her eyes, she looked across the room toward the table where he tossed his clothing and effects.

They were gone. Not just his shirt and breeches, but everything: hat, coat, baldric, boots… everything.

She rose and went to the table, running her hand over the empty space, as if it might prove to be an illusion. It wasn't. Sickened, she began to shake, and braced against the edge, vacillating wildly from disbelief to anger, to despair and back, filled with self-loathing for having fallen into the trap of believing him. A small voice argued that perhaps that final good-bye was too much for him to face, but she furiously slapped it away. Jack had specifically promised.

Disappear and she wouldn't be there. That had been her threat, and he had called her bluff. Her only choice now was what to do about it. She snorted, making an angry noise to the empty room. No hurry there; she had a month, or two… at least.

It was galling to think that he might be laughing at her, daring her to make good on her threat. Was she really that ready to leave Marguerite's?

_Damn right! _If nothing else than to disappear the moment the _Black Pearl_ pulled into the harbor, just to make Jack suffer a little more.

The_ Black Pearl_. Was she still there? Feet turned to lead, Kate couldn't bring herself to look. She wondered which would be worse: confirming her fears by finding the ship gone, or find it there, and know that Jack had opted for his ship's company as opposed to hers. Never had she asked him to choose between her and his ship. It would have been no contest, and she knew that well. All she had asked were a few more hours, and then the _Pearl_, the sea and his men could have him.

Balling her fists, she drew a deep breath, and turned. It was then that she discovered which was worse: the _Pearl_ still sat in quiet repose on her moorings.

"… _What with everything to be done…"_ Indeed! Jack had been making his excuses then.

Voices in the hall and a familiar clatter broke her stare, and Jack burst in the door. Flushed and breathless, face a faint sheen of sweat, he looked first toward the bed, surprised and a bit disconcerted to find her standing at the window.

"Ah, there you are!" With a self-pleased smile, he pushed the door shut behind him. "I would have thought you would be tired after…"

She crossed the room in three steps and slapped him, full and hard.

"Ow! What the bloody…?"

"Damn you! You're here!"

Her blood was up and she took another swing. He easily caught her hand in mid-air, and managed to fend off the next several flailing blows. Finally he managed to catch both her arms, and pinned down her arms.

"You bastard!" she seethed, struggling to wrench free. "You're still here!"

"And you're angry about that?"

She hit him in the side—accidentally to be sure, but was gratified to hear him grunt with pain. His arms loosened and she pulled away.

"Yes!" She stood back, panting, rubbing the twisted skin of her wrists.

With an accusing look, he rubbed the offended side of his face. "And would have been happier if I were not?"

"No!"

"Really darling, you aren't making any sense a'tall! Before I got slapped for coming back; I get it for being here. Bloody woman, will you make up your mind!"

Embarrassment and anger was giving over to tears of relief, and she began to crumble. He shied when she raised a hand to dry her eyes.

"I woke up… and then everything… but you…" With a choking sob, she fell against him, weeping, unmindful of his pistol digging into her middle, one of his belt buckles gouging her ribs.

Hesitant, his arms came slowly around her. "Shh… shh.. It's all right." He quivered with suppressed humor.

"Don't you dare laugh!" she said, kittenishly thumping his chest with her fist.

He made a feeble attempt, and failed miserably. "Shh… I promise… shh…" he said, still fizzing. She stiffened, and he renewed his efforts to sober, patting her on the back with increased vigor. "I shan't… it's just… it's been a while since I was attacked by a naked woman."

"It's happened before?" Her head resting on his shoulder, her breath came in shuddering gasps and hiccups. His thumb hypnotically brushing behind her ear was working its magic.

"Aye… once or twice, come to think on it, maybe three," he added as an aside. "But never one as beautiful, or as good of an arm," he said wryly, touching his cheek.

"I thought you were gone," she said, in a high, thin squeak. "I woke up, and you were… and then I thought…"

He held her back by the shoulders, and took her by the chin, lifting her head in order to look straight into her eyes. "I've upheld my end of the accord, have I not? I was thinking after our… night last night," he said with a suggestive lifting of his brows, "that you'd be sleeping a bit longer. I was flopping about, and didn't want to wake you. You're so lovely when you sleep."

It was an interesting barrage of excuses. The fact that he was offering them instantly negated each one as valid.

"You must think I'm a sniveling dolt." Suddenly, it seemed that was all she had been doing for the last days, last year, for that matter.

"If that were to be of any consequence, it would have been imminently apparent the first night you were aboard. Me shirt's gone moldy since; need to go to the bilges, just to dry out."

She snickered at that; it was difficult to be maudlin around him, and he knew it.

He smoothed her hair from her face. "You're a woman of passions… many of them," he added with wryly. "It would be against me best interests to hold that against you."

"Where were you?" She flinched at the desperate, beseeching sound of that.

He looked in every direction but hers, one eye narrowing as he mentally clicked off possible responses, finally opting for the entirely lame, "Nothing."

His face fell at the sight of scowl. "Not believing that one, eh?"

"Not remotely."

Noticing something on his collar and shoulder, she frowned at the reddish smears. "That looks like face paint… or lip rouge."

She took a step back to see him more fully, only to find more on the front of his breeches.

"You are jumping to conclusions and assumptions that are not to be concluded," he said, turning his hips to avoid her investigation. "I could say that it's not, but I'm thinking that I might could save me breath on that score."

Keenly aware of Jack's ability to play anyone, Kate considered the possibilities. He was fully dressed, weapons, hat and all. As ever-alert to danger as he was, he might have gone fully armed, but wouldn't have taken the time to fully dress if he were only going down the hall for an _affaire_. On that score, in the week's time that he had been there, she hadn't witnessed the slightest suggestion of wandering eyes, on his part, at any rate.

On the other hand, guilt was written all over him. If anything, he was overly innocent. Judging by his surprise at finding her up, he had been planning to sneak back while she was still sleeping, and then pretend he'd had been there all the time. It was an odd game of hot and cold: his tepid indignation pointed directly toward he had something to hide; the closer she drew to the truth, the more heated his innocence would become.

She leaned closer. He flinched and shied, but held his ground as she sniffed, first one side of his neck, and then the other.

"You sound like a truffle hog," he grumbled warily.

Congested from crying, her sense of smell was still sharp enough. There was no hint to perfume, powder or another woman, or of a carnal nature. Aside from morning air, street dust, leafy greenness—as if he passed through the garden—a fruity tang and rum—probably Marguerite's punch—and something else familiar that she couldn't quite name, she detected nothing other than Jack.

"Do I pass inspection?" He lifted on brow in an "I told you so" fashion. "I tell the truth all the time, yet no one believes me."

"It's because you can hide honesty so well," she said tartly.

The breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the smells of cooking onions and sausages, rolls, and—miracles of miracles—coffee! Jack's stomach growled loudly in anticipation, prompting him to look censoriously down his nose.

"I suppose we might consider fulfilling appetites of more than just the flesh."

Kate gave him a mildly curious look; by her recollection, she had never heard his stomach do that. "I supposed we'd better get you fed, before you fall over. Marguerite doesn't approve of men lying about in the halls."

While Kate dressed, Jack doffed his hat. Filling the basin, he vigorously washed, splashing water in his face, sputtering, and scrubbing his hands. Kate stopped in mid-motion as she pulled on her skirt, staring. It seemed it was a morning of many surprises.

"Allow me," he said, his voice muffled by the towel as he dried off. Tossing the towel aside and gestured her nearer as she struggled with her stays. "I'd like to eat before they throw it to the pigs."

Kate bit her lip as she obligingly turned around. She couldn't argue. After a lifetime, of wearing them, laces that closed in the back were still a tribulation, often requiring several minutes of wrestling and huffing, leaving her sweating and in a foul mood. Water droplets glistening in his lashes and mustache, Jack nimbly handled the task.

Finished, he slipped his arms around her waist. She turned as he drew her closer, and kissed him, tracing the sharp peak of his lip with her tongue at the end.

"I'm sorry." Kate knew words could be hollow, and yet not to make amends seemed worse.

Groaning, she nestled her head under his chin. They held each other, afraid to let go, knowing that they must.

"When?" she finally ventured to ask.

His chest slowly rose and fell, and then she felt him look toward the window to judge the time. "Not long. Tide's out, but we've a fair wind to clear the harbor."

Her heart squeezed a little tighter. _Not long._ An hour? Two? _Not long._

Making little "Pft! Pft!" sounds, he tried to clear his mouth of her hair. He regarded her with a critical eye. "Let's see if we can bring some sort of order to the world today, eh?"

Aware that it as another attempt to distract and cajole; Kate played along and sat on the stool, while Jack fetched her brush.

The silver-backed brush still bore the initial "W" on the back. It had belonged to Mrs. Whitstead, a fellow passenger during her crossing from England. The matriarch had died of a fever, her trunk becoming part of the plunder when the ship was raided by the _Black Pearl_. The men had brought it to her the next day, but had always been unclear if they had done so out of their own volition, or if Jack had prompted them. It was one of her few possessions, and she treasured it, not just because of its value as a tool.

Muttering under his breath, with a determined set to his jaw, he set to brushing, firmly but gently demanding obedience as he would a crewman. Kate closed her eyes to focus on the soft rasp of the brush, and the feel of Jack's finger's gliding up the nape of her neck and over the curves of her scalp. It was a special sensation, and a rare luxury.

Given the chaotic state of his hair, it seemed highly unlikely that it had seen a brush in years, and yet Jack deftly manipulated her stubborn tresses into smooth coils around his fingers, carefully arranging them around her shoulders. But then, nothing Jack did with those hands came as unexpected. The mental image of them performing the simplest of tasks gave her a thrill that penetrated every crevice, often rendering her a bit breathless.

Once order had been established to his satisfaction, he poked through the pile of ribbons on the worktable, finally coming up victoriously with a peacock blue one that echoed the hues of the harbor.

"This one! It matches the color of your eyes today," he declared, and sliced off a length with his boot knife.

Normally, those ribbons were reserved for her dressmaking for the women of the house, not personal use, but she said nothing; Jack seemed to have a carte blanche when it came to anything he wanted. With equal dexterity, he tied her hair back, and arranged the ribbon. A courtly bow declared the job done.

"Would _mademoiselle_ care to accompany me in a bit of _le_ _déjeuner_?"

Kate rose and squared her shoulders, settling herself to meet what would probably be their last meal together, with strength and grace. She didn't want his last memories to be of her red-eyed and snotty-nosed.

Before they were to the bottom of the steps, they could hear the merriment spilling from the dining room into the hall. Rounding through the doors, they walked into a jocular mood, Camille and Analaise sliding apart on the benches to make room for them. By most standards, it would have been considered a large room, but it was dwarfed by the press of bodies and voices, the curtains seemingly pressed against the wall.

Breakfast, given was often the only meal in the house that was allowed its due time, and in typical French style, bordered on decadent, relatively speaking. The sideboard and table groaned under their burdens of bowls, baskets, platters and pitchers: ___pain bâtard_, warm rolls, bread, hash, sausages, fish, porridge, fruit, eggs, game pies, dried beef, cheese, jams, honey, marmalades, battercakes to eat, with bullion, _bavaroise_, made with maidenhair syrup, pitchers of ale, _café au lait_, hot chocolate with whipped cream, fragrant with cinnamon and vanilla to wash it down.

For Kate, it was no different than at home with her brothers. Breakfast could be a raucous affair, with conversations colliding across the table, often ribald, one trying to be heard over the other, yet above the clatter of cups and silverware. From all appearances, brothels gave everyone involved a healthy appetite, in more ways than one.

Not yet dressed for the day, the house's women didn't suffer from modesty. Unpowdered or rouged, still pink-faced and pale-lipped, hair down about their shoulders or hastily pinned up, they were clad in not much beyond a shift or a wrapper. Those garments offering precious little cover, the women were indifferent to the revealing gaps as they bent and twisted.

Kate watched curiously from one the corner of her eye as Jack single-mindedly devoured a wedge of game pie, sausages, and eggs, alternately washing it down coffee and ale. Looking toward the end of the table, she noted that there must have been a contagion afoot; Gibbs was eating with equal verve.

"Mind your fingers," Marguerite observed dryly watching the two as Novella brought more platters. "We've men at the table today."

Jack would be stricken mute if he couldn't use his hands, and carried on in full bent. Slathering rolls with honey and butter, busily licking his fingers, he never missed a word. His animated conversation with Camille went unhindered as he speared two battercakes from a passing platter, dropping one on Kate's plate, and one on his. As Kate listened, she was stabbed by the thought of how much she was going to miss the sound of that graveled voice.

At one point, Jack paused warily, the fork half-way to his mouth. "What are you looking at?"

"You," she said bluntly. "I've never seen you eat that much since I've known you."

He winked, then wiped the marmalade from his mouth before kissing her on the cheek. "Worked up an appetite." He spoke loudly enough for the benefit of all, the women giggling like schoolgirls.

Kate watched Marguerite, sleep-snarled and still in her wrapper, at the end of the table, and Gibbs on her right, and wondered if they had the same conversation the night before as she and Jack. Had Gibbs told her that he was leaving?

Marguerite didn't strike Kate as one to go misty-eyed or sentimental over something as basic as a man leaving, although seeing her and Gibbs together did give one pause. The angle of their bodies, and the sly glances when they thought no one was looking; it made them seem years younger. Marguerite's girlish glee when she first saw him certainly pointed toward something more than just a matter of the flesh.

Reflecting back, since her arrival, Kate could only recall two or three men being invited to Marguerite's rooms. Perhaps there was more in that than what had originally appeared.

The doorbell rang and a muted group groan went up, restrained by the presence of their mistress. Gaubert, ever vigilant in his corner, promptly left, discretely pulling the door closed behind him.

"Hate it when they come before my breakfast properly settles," grumbled Analise from Kate's side. "Disrupts the digestion. Makes a soul's airs go all wrong."

"He's Ruby's," said Severine from across the table, with a sidelong look toward the end of the table, where the hapless nominee sat, evoking a twitter from everyone. "She's the youngest; she has to go."

Marguerite lifted a brow over the edge of her cup of hot chocolate, but said nothing.

Years upon the earth wasn't Severine's meaning. In fact quite the contrary. Ruby was among the oldest, Marguerite notwithstanding. She was, however, the most recent to the house, and therefore was obliged to take the least desirable customers.

Analaise familiarly elbowed Kate in the ribs. "Marguerite should hire you." She peered around Kate to gesture toward Jack with her fork, and winked. "I've never seen him happier."

Overhearing, Jack stopped in mid-bite of egg to half-rise and graciously bowed to the enthusiastic applause. Kate's face heated.

Chloe came in with additional pitchers of ale in her arms, bearing the look of a person fit to burst with news.

"Did everyone hear what happened to Monsieur Doncker?" she announced, her eyes rolling with mystery.

Kate's fork rattled to her plate, Jack's face already carefully arranged in an unnaturally innocent blank when he turned his way. At quick glance at Gibbs found an identical countenance; they could have been twins.

A chorus of feminine inquiries prompted Chloe on. "He was found this morning in the pillory," she began, near breathless with the import of her message. "His head had been shaved and he was wearing nothing but a corset…"

She was obliged to raise her voice to be heard over the hoots and peals of laughter. "He's purple from the shoulders up, and his cock was bright orange."

Kate shot a stony glare at Jack, realizing then what she had smelled on him earlier: Doncker's cologne. How could she have ever missed that?

"My hands are clean!" Jack declared, illustrating.

"Jack! You didn't!" Kate hissed under the gleeful din.

"Very well, I didn't," he said agreeably.

"I told you I didn't want him killed."

"And he's not," he pointed out shortly. Little finger elegantly aimed skyward, he sipped his coffee. Setting down the cup with utmost delicacy, he smacked his lips, fluttering his lashes. "But you said nothing about dying."

Gaubert came in behind Chloe, taking up his customary position at the corner near the doorway.

"Interesting point," he intoned, his inordinately deep voice readily audible over the melee. "If one were to look closely, it appeared as though he had been beaten."

"Mindless violence and malfeasance!" Jack declared, with an emphatic thump on the table.

Gaubert seemed to be caught between his customary disapproval of Jack—a bit spared for Gibbs as well—and his pleasure at Doncker's misfortune. "It appeared he had a couple of broken ribs, too."

"Is there no end to the effrontery to be perpetrated upon such an upstanding member of the community?" Jack declared, waving a righteously indignant arm. "Roustabouts and malefactors mucking about. Where's the law when it's needed!"

Lifting his cup, Jack's gaze meet Gaubert's over the heads of the women. "If he had been shot in the side, the irony would have been stretched credulity."

Mindful of her pique, Jack cautiously leaned Kate's direction. "Monsieur might wish to be using the chamber pot in private," he said judiciously as an aside. "He's going to be peeing bright red for the next few days. Madder root, you know; burns worse than the French pox, by what I'm told. Nasty business that." He ended with a dramatic shudder.

Hesitant, as if approaching an explosive, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Chapeau, darling. I would have never thought of it by me onsies."


	53. Chapter 53: Path of the Sparrow

**The Path of the Sparrow**

**Breakfast** was declared complete by virtue of the women of the house being called away to business. It was unusual for the brothel to be so busy that early, but no one questioned the vagaries of carnal appetites.

Back in their room, the tension between Jack and Kate thickened the air, rendering it nearly too heavy to breath. Kate felt its dizzying effects when she attempted to draw a breath; the constricting band around her chest had returned. There were several awkward moments, neither knowing quite how to avoid the obvious. Desperate to bravely face the inevitable, she felt her grip slipping, seized by violent tremors every time she began to speak. Too preoccupied, Jack didn't seem to notice.

"Those dressings should be changed in a day or two," she finally managed to squeeze out, her hand as shaky as her voice. "The sticky plasters can be removed, too. You don't want to leave them on too long, or your skin might go raw."

Jack gave her a queer look, apparently having forgotten the matter. Frowning, he disinterestedly nodded.

The clank of coins broke the awkward silence, startling Kate. Turning, she found Jack standing by the bedstand, pointing off-handedly toward the leather pouch that he had just dropped there. "That's for… well, while I'm… away."

The last work came with difficulty. He swallowed hard, as if just having taken a dose of medicine. For the first time in days, he looked as though he was in desperate need of a drink.

Kate picked up the leather bag, feeling its weight. It was heavy—very heavy.

"It's a lot of money… for one month." She let the unspoken question hang in the air. Did he really think she was going to need that much for a month, or was he going to be gone longer, and this was his way of telling her?

"Ehh… it's just in case. I swear, a month, two at the most, and I will be back." He angled his head, indicating her skirt pocket. "You have me pledge… yes, I know it's still there," he added hastily.

He was, of course, referring to his single-word note, a declaration wrapped around a lead shot. It had been her talisman once before, and looked to be the same again. The fact that he had looked to see that she still had it said a great deal.

"If you're inclined to believe it," he said, caught between nonchalance and sincerity, "then there's naught more to be said. If you're not believing it… well, naught much more to be said there, either." He had a strained look, like a man facing a firing squad.

"Be that as it may, it's all arranged," he went on quickly, cutting off her reply. "You'll be wanting to stay here, I assumed, but you're a guest," he said with emphasis. "You're no longer… employed." His lip curled slightly at that.

Kate was flattered that Jack had gone to such measures, but was a little dismayed, her independent side rearing its head. "But, I… I can't just sit. I have something..."

He ruffled at having his best intentions being declined. "Very well, have it as you will. You can work your fingers to the bone, if you wish, but it will be because you wish it, not because you've been compelled."

"But Marguerite…"

"Has been paid, and handsomely, I might add." A rueful smile flickered across his face. "Don't allow her to make you feel sorry for her."

Conceding, Kate pensively rolled the bag in her hands.

"It's a lot of…" She faded off at the sight of the letters "SD" monogrammed on its side. She shot Jack an accusing glare, who only gave an elaborate shrug in return.

"Pirate." He offered the single word as if it was an all-encompassing explanation. In many ways, it was. "Keep that away from the good Monsieur Gicquel and his goodwife."

"How did you know?" It was startling and troubling that Jack had been able to learn so much about what all had happened during his absence. She thought it had been her secret, in the spirit of keeping Jack from going off on another search for vengeance. Considering the morning's revelations, it would seem she had failed at that, too.

"Really, darling!" He began pacing as much as the small room would allow—four steps, turn, four steps and turn again—his hands carving the air as his agitation grew.

"I might be daft, but I'm not dense. It's a small town, figuratively speaking, and I can add two and two, and come up with something eloquently more accurate than three and a half. Gaubert has assured me you'll be seen after; you should be able to walk the streets unhindered."

Kate wished that she could have been a small mouse in the corner during that conversation.

He paused in mid-step, to smile crookedly, with a great deal of gratification. "I strongly suspect that Monsieur Dungheap has the sense to walk to the other side of the street when he sees you coming. Can I depend on you not to go do something even more daft than I?"

One of the concerns Jack had voiced most often was regarding her safety while he was away. He understood well that his absence meant not only being unable to provide her with protection neither could he control her actions. In spite of what Jack had done to Doncker, it wouldn't preclude Doncker from taking his own vengeances on her while Jack was gone.

"Are you thinking that if you leave enough of this," she said, holding up the purse, "that it will guarantee that I'll be here?"

"If I thought it would work, I'd leave double. Hold your course and speed, luv. I'll be back before you know it."

Rocking on his toes and drumming his fingers on his belts, Jack looked in every direction but hers. Finally, he blew out noisily between his lips.

"Well, I'll be taking me leave here." He gulped, his eyes clouding. "You'll spare me the ugliness of doing this down at the docks?"

She wasn't quite sure what happened. One moment, he held her, with the intention of kissing her farewell, knowing it was to be the last, and afraid to make it so. The next minute, he was digging his fingers into her hair, ravaging her mouth. Triggered by blind panic, and began frantically tearing away each other's clothing. Tumbling backwards onto the bed, they came together in a shattering collision, sheathing himself to the root in a desperate plunge. She clawed, urging him deeper, enough that he might never leave.

They didn't care who might hear their cries as flesh pounded flesh. She bit his shoulder, to mark him, to make him hers to anyone who happened to see. She came first, her body calling his, stroking, heated. Rigidly straining, his fingers dug her shoulders, and he cried out with a choking anguish that verged on heartbreaking.

They collapsed after, his breath a ragged rasp in her ear, their heartbeats echoing through their joining, a slow unified throb.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair. Sometime in their tumult, the ribbon had come free. "Shouldn't be taking you like a rutting boar."

"I wanted it, too." She smoothed his mustache, and he kissed her finger when it brushed his lips.

He made to move, but she stayed him with a hand at the small of his back, to keep him hers for that bit longer. At last, he rolled aside, and they lay quietly. She closed her eyes to recall the last few minutes, each sensation a final treasure to be hoarded.

She felt his gaze. Opening her eyes to find him watching, she asked, "What are you looking at?"

"If you must know, I'm looking at the most beautiful woman I have ever laid me eyes upon, and wondering how daft it 'tis to think that she'll be here in a month."

"Oh, that. One month," she mused, shaking a cautionary finger. "If you're not back on Day Thirty, I'll be gone on Thirty-one."

The molasses-colored eyes sparked with mirth. "Ah, but you forget: I said a month. October comes; it's thirty-one."

"Very well, on Day Thirty-two."

"But then you've shorted me a day already…"

She narrowed one eye. "Don't press it. Thirty-one, it is. Do we have an accord?" she asked, holding out her hand.

He took it, tracing the delicate bones with his thumb. "We have an accord." He kissed her knuckles, the touch of his lips bringing her gooseflesh anew.

She pressed her palm the tattoo over his heart: a ship with a banner emblazoned with a single word: "Freedom." Was she giving him his? Or was it even hers to give? He was exercising what came as natural as flight to the bird depicted on his arm. She wondered how much swallows are like sparrows. Swallows were known for their thousand-mile journeys across the seas, to return to the one they left, making them the symbol of luck and good fortune to mariners.

And sparrows? How could such an unassuming little bird possibly have the temerity to argue with the swallow's wisdom?

_Freedom._ In so many ways, it was such a simple request.

To love Jack was to give him what he needed; he had asked no more. To rob him of it would be to condemn the essence of what he was. He would hate her for that; it was a death she wouldn't want on her hands. As elusive as Jack might be, he had never misrepresented what he was. The "who" of it might have been up for question, but as to the "what," there had never been any doubt.

She kissed the image over his heart, her pledge to his credo, and then lifted her mouth to his, trying to instill in that kiss all her faith and trust, in both him and his ability to make his promise come to pass. His kiss told her everything she needed to know: he would be back. Short of death—and knowing Jack, he could probably manage something even after that—he would be back, earth, nor sky, nor sea being too great to be moved.

"Good-bye, Jack."

Everything there was to be said had been; anything more would be to flail what had already been striped. Her throat tightened, her heart pounding dully in her head.

He made to reply; with a startled look, he found he was stricken speechless. He made a few strangled sounds, and then bit his lip, baffled. "I can't bring meself to say it."

There was a sharp rap at the door, and it burst open. In one fluid move, Jack dove for his pistol on the bedside table, shoved Kate down into the mattress behind him, rolled up on his knees, and brought the pistol to bear toward the door, only to be aiming squarely at Marguerite's nose. Unfazed, she quietly pushed the door closed.

"Ruby just told Minnie that her customer is here with the East India Trading Company," she reported without preamble, in a hushed, urgent voice.

"Bugger!" Jack hurtled from the bed, and snatched his breeches from the floor. "I knew I didn't like the looks of that ship. Get dressed!"

"This is French territory!" Kate protested, scrambling for her clothing. "How can the Company….?"

"Explain that to them," Jack shot back. "There're here, aren't they? The balance strikes me as wholly self-explanatory. They bloody well don't care!"

"They'll be looking for you!" Kate paused until her head popped clear of her shift. "Don't wait for me, just go!"

There was another rap at the door. Pulling Kate behind him, Jack brought his weapon up again. Minnie slipped in around the edge of the door, and went ashen at the sight of the barrel aimed squarely at her. Balking, she tried to speak, but could only produce a squeak.

"Out with it, child!" Marguerite hissed.

Round-eyed, Minnie tried again, more successfully after Jack lowered his weapon.

"I just brought punch and biscuits to Camille's room. Her man is from the East India Trading Company."

"That's two," Marguerite reported needlessly.

"Has Beckett found me?" Heart pounding, Kate was beginning to feel as panicked as Minnie.

"He's dead, darling. Remember?" Jack said with cold finality.

That point served to calm Kate's fears only slightly. It was becoming difficult to think rationally. Royal Army, Royal Navy, the Company: her recent experiences with anyone of authority hadn't gone well. She had no basis to believe treatment at the hands of anyone else would go any differently.

"Who's his replacement?" asked Kate, groping for her skirt.

"I haven't the foggiest, and what's more eloquently relevant, I don't give a bloody damn!" Jack grumbled through the folds of his shirt as he pulled it on.

"But I thought you said the Company was defeated."

His head clear of his shirt, he propped his hands on his hips to glare.

"Really, darling, must we play silly questions now? A ship of the line was blown to bits, taking His High-handedness to the depths. The Company proper was otherwise unscathed, living to persecute another day, only to be deterred by the minor inconvenience of having to promote another pompous, bungling fop."

"Why would Beckett's replacement want me?"

"Most likely he doesn't know you from the neighborhood fishwife, with all due respect. Someone, however, greatly appreciates the color of Doncker's money."

"Doncker? You think he sent for them?"

"No reason to believe otherwise. He has the money, and the connections. Not much else is required."

"How can that be?" she pleaded to Marguerite, who casually shrugged.

"Happens easily enough: they come in, take who they want, and are long gone before the authorities have any notion. Filing complaints with the Company or the Crown brings little in these waters."

"So, this is all because of… "

"Me, most likely," Jack cut in, wincing with guilt. "No one has to guess what's under that bit o' lace you wear at your wrist, especially after you were dropped off from the _Black Pearl_, but chances are…"

"I got caught in the middle," interjected Kate, "again" being the unspoken word, not in accusation, just a statement of fact. "Then we don't know if they're after you or me."

"A point I'm not prepared to stand about in order to find out," said Jack tersely, hastily stuffing his shirttail into his breeches.

"Isn't it a bit of a coincidence that they just happened to be here today?"

"The coincidence is that he just happened to get his just deserts today. The wheels had been set in motion for this, months ago. Where's Gibbs?" Jack demanded of as he strapped on his belts.

"He's coming," she said. Distracted by Minnie, who had begun packing Kate's sewing box, she waved a hand, shooing the maid toward the door. "Never mind that! There's no time. Mind the door."

"Just go!" Kate shouted at Jack as loudly as she dared, fumbling to hook her skirt with fingers that had gone maddeningly numb. "Don't wait for me. Go!"

"I'll not!" Jack growled, sitting on the bed to pull on his boots. "No one's getting hold of you. We have to get her out of here," he added, looking to Marguerite, stomping his foot into a boot.

"Take the servant stairs. Then you can go out through the carriage house and into the alley. You know the way."

Nodding, Jack beat on the boot on his other foot as Gibbs eased into the room, cautious not to shut the door too loudly. Sword in one hand and pistol in the other, he was disheveled but ready, the sight of him bringing Kate a renewed sense of security. With him at Jack's side, it seemed nothing could go wrong.

"Orders?"

The small room was becoming crowded, everyone urgently talking in hushed voices, to avoid alarming anyone in the surrounding rooms, one question colliding with another.

"Get her out of here," Jack said, pointing to Kate with his chin, as he slipped on his baldric. "I don't care what else happens, I want her gone. Any idea how many are aboard by now?"

"By my count, enough," Gibbs said confidently.

"Good! Gather up whoever else you may, but we're not waiting. If they can't make the _Pearl_ on time, they'll find themselves crewing another ship."

Briefly nodding a salute, Gibbs turned on his heel to leave, his step slowing as he met Marguerite by the door. "T'was good to see ye again, ol' gal."

It was evident to anyone who cared to look, that there was much more Gibbs wanted to say, but duty called, and it was a stern master. Witnessing the tender moment was exceptionally uncomfortable for Kate.

Marguerite cupped her hand to one of Gibbs' mutton-chops, and kissed him gently. "Don't make it so long before your next visit."

With a reluctant roll of his eyes, Gibbs was gone.

Jack swiveled on Kate, and huffed, "Aren't you ready yet?"

"I'm trying to find my shoes." On the far side of the bed, she was on her hands and knees. "Maybe, if you hadn't been so anxious to get into bed… Got 'em!"

"Be sharp about it!" Jack urged.

While Kate struggled with her shoes, Marguerite came around, ostensibly to help tighten her laces. As Kate straightened, the madam shoved a small velvet pouch into Kate's hand, the soft, metallic clink of coins revealing its contents.

Marguerite glanced over her shoulder to make sure Jack was far enough away. "Here, you take this," she murmured, with motherly urgency.

"No, I couldn't!" Kate was taken by surprise by the uncharacteristic generosity.

"Take it!" Marguerite hissed. "You've earned that and more. Jack's a good man, but his sort is hard on women. Put it away somewhere." She winked conspiratorially, patting Kate's arm. "You may need it. It doesn't seem right that someone as decent as you should get mixed up with the likes of him."

Kate could see Jack over Marguerite's shoulder, near the door, settling his hat on his head, and then calmly checking his pistol's primer, and her heart swelled.

The pirate was back.

"He's difficult not to love."

Marguerite followed Kate's gaze. "He's a charmer, that's for sure," she sighed, with reluctant admiration.

Weepy-eyed, they hugged, Marguerite roughly wiping her cheek. "If you ever find yourself in need, there will always be a place for you here."

"I think that's what Jack is afraid of," Kate mused, stashing the coin bag into her skirt pocket.

"Never mind Jack; he's a man, he can manage. We women have to take care of each other."

"Is there any hope of this hen party breaking this up soon?" Jack growled.

"Very well!"

Stopping at his elbow, Kate turned to give Marguerite a short wave then followed Jack out the door.

It was safe to assume that the women were doing their best to keep them distracted, but getting away without discovery was preferable. Anxious to be away, but ever-vigilant, Jack was mindful of making noise that might announce their escape.

Once down the steps and through the kitchens, they crossed the dooryard and entered the carriage house, checking cautiously at every turn. Wedging past the wheels of the barouche, Kate's stomach plummeted when she thought they had reached a dead end at the back wall, but it seemed she had forgotten who she was with. A door fashioned out of the wall itself seemingly appeared from nowhere, and they passed from the shed's dusty shadows out into the glare of the alley.

Running behind Jack, his grip crushing her fingers, Kate felt like a piece of flapping laundry. His usual levity gone, Jack was maddeningly calm as he wove through the backside of the town. It struck her that he had done this many, many times before. Just short of the docks, Jack dove back, slamming her against the stone, backtracking to duck into the shadows of a stack of puncheons.

"Company men," he whispered, soliciting her silence with his eyes. "Best not risk it."

Breathing hard, she held it long enough to hear a group of men approaching on the street, amiably talking. As they crossed the alley's mouth, she caught a glimpse of green coats, the uniform of the East India Trading Company.

Waiting, Jack held her firmly against the wall, shielding her, pistol at the ready, the heat of his body radiating through her clothing. At one point, he glanced down at her.

"Best laid plans, eh?" he grinned, and then averted his attention back to the street.

Once satisfied it was clear, they stepped out from the alley, and melted into the crush of activity on the docks.

The wharves were a wall of noise—shouting, swearing, hawkers selling their wares, the clang and clatter of moving stores, and the bleat and bray of livestock—the air thicken to the point of barely breathable, heat and dust only adding to the miasma of smoke, dead fish, sweat, tide flats, manure and tar.

Keeping up as best she could, Kate tried to appear as nonchalant as Jack, but found it nearly impossible with a pounding heart and limbs gone wooden with fear. Her head whirling with the rapid change of affairs, a different kind of tightness seized her chest, sweat running down her face, and between her shoulder blades. Men were after them; which one, who or why was beside the point.

Jack wove through the jostling press of people, beasts of burden, handcarts and drays with well-practiced agility. Kate guiltily couldn't help but think that she was slowing him down; if it weren't for her, he could have been well away, safe. As they fell in stride between a cooper's dray and its team of oxen, using them for cover from both the warehouses on the one side, and the harbor on the other, it occurred to her that Jack was actually enjoying this.

Her eye caught a green ship amid the dozens of others in the harbor, and she wondered if that were the one Jack had spotted a few days before, if that were the Company ship. It looked as much like one ship as another to her. She strained to see the _Pearl_, but her rigging was obscured by the forest of masts and yards.

They worked their way down to the lower docks, where the smaller boats—fishing, turtling, longboats, skiffs, dinghies, jolly mons, bumboats and barges—were tied off.

To her relief, Jack's step slowed, striding down the docks as if he owned them, merging into the eclectic array of men that milled about with the same ease as his ship's rigging melded into that of the other ships. He scrutinized every boat they passed, shaking his head and muttering.

Finally, they came upon one that drew his attention, a single-masted skiff that tended to list. He lightly leaped down into the clutter of turtle shells, grouds, buckets, gaffing hooks and ragged pieces of net, and gave it a quick inspection, experimentally prodding the gourds with his toe.

"Yup, this one," he declared with a satisfied nod and extended his hand. "C'mon, get aboard!"

"You're just going to take it?" Kate gave a furtive look over both shoulders, expecting the owners to appear any moment.

"No, I'm borrowing it. Now, will you just get in!"

"How are you going to get it back?"

"I'll turn it loose and it can find its own way home like a bloody pigeon." Irritated, his eyes bulged, and his teeth bared. "Now, will you please get in, oh conscience of mine!"

Kate eyed the craft, dubious of the likelihood of it remaining afloat long enough to make it across the harbor, to the _Pearl._ Hitching her skirts, leaning heavily on his arm, she clamored down. Pointing her to a seat at the stern, he marched to the bow, a distance of barely twenty feet, by her measure. With a deft swirl, the painter was cast free. Planting a boot against the dock, he gave a shove, and they were away.


	54. Chapter 54: Off the Map

**Chapter Fifty-four: Off the Map**

**After** Jack's push-off from the wharf, the skiff drifted. Once clear of the protection of the other craft, the breeze caught it, and pushed it on a spiraling, downwind drift. Grasping the gunwale, Kate marveled at Jack's seaman's ballet, executed from bow to stern and back, as if he was still walking the docks.

"Now, do you recall what I taught you on the _Pearl_?" he called over his shoulder from the mast, busy with the lines.

"A little… I think," she added with a rising sense of unease.

"Great! Everything is the same, except different. This one has a tiller."

She followed his direction as he pointed out a long, stout handle at the stern. The mechanism wasn't unfamiliar; she had seen them many times on the longboats.

"Which means…?"

"Which means," he sighed, barely patient. "You grab hold here and steer." Seizing her hand, he planted it firmly on the wood and gave a concise lesson. "Push this way and it goes there; pull this way and it goes there. Savvy?"

Mute, she nodded, trying to sort out the boat's minute responses with each action.

"All right." He settled the rope—err… sheet in his grasp. "On my command, come about into the wind." He paused, looking skyward. "All right, now!"

Confused, firstly by trying to find the wind, and secondly at what to do with the tiller, she gave a solid push.

"Belay! Belay! No! The other way!" Feeding the line out, he backed up and grabbed the tiller. "That way!" he barked, shoving it the opposite direction. "Now, hold!"

Clearly the little boat knew who was in command and swung obediently about, at the same time leaving Kate to desperately wondering, if he meant for her to keep the tiller where he had left it, or if she was expected to do something else. A small voice told her not to worry; if there was something Jack wanted. There would be no doubts.

As if the wind were at his beckon as well, it came around directly in her face. With several yanks, and an emphatic grunt on Jack's part, the sail was raised.

"Now, fall off," he shouted over the erratic flapping of the canvas. Bent to secure the line, he straightened, bellowing. "No! Have you no idea where the bloody wind is? The other way! Easy! Are you trying to throw us both to the fish?"

Bristling, she bit back several unkind remarks and corrected their course. With a solid _whompf! _the sail snapped full, the skiff rolling slightly as it picked up speed. One hand on the mast, the other on his hip, Jack stood looking ahead.

"Bearing well." Twisting, he grinned at her over his shoulder. "Right proper seaman you are."

"I'd do even better, if you didn't keep yelling."

He turned and lightly kissed her. "Gotta yell, luv," he said quietly, smiling against her lips. "Captain's orders must be heard."

"It's only a twenty-foot boat," she pointed out, still ruffled.

"Aye, and over twenty years of habit." He looked over her shoulder at the harbor behind, then toward the bay ahead. "Fall off a bit, so's to allow that brig a bit o' sea room. Then come back up."

"You want me to what?"

Rolling his eyes, he wove his hand from one side to side as he explained, his voice dropping to the tenor of a nursemaid. "Turn that way, to go around the dear, little three-masted ship in front of us, lest we hit her broadside. Then come back this way."

She frowned with a ferocity that drove him back a step. "I'm not a child."

"Barely a minute ago, you didn't want me yelling." He exhaled sharply through his nose, and shook his head. "This is going to be a long trip."

The headsail was set with a minimum of effort and their speed increased, the boat biting eagerly into the low chop of the harbor. The _Pearl's_ masts soon separated from the combined forest of the others. Rounding one ship, she came into full view. Kate's heart soared at the sight of the dark queen sitting regally on her moorings, the ant-like movement of the men on the decks and rigging, preparing to make way. A small trail of longboats approached the ship from the opposite direction, and Kate wondered if Gibbs might be among them.

It had been a long time, a very long time since she had seen the _Pearl_. She felt some regret at never having properly taken her leave of the ship, the thought occurring that perhaps the ship might be bearing hard feelings. Yes, it was true: she had been around Jack and Gibbs to see the ship as a living entity, with all the foibles that brought.

Without fully realizing it, Kate steered for the _Pearl._ There were a few moments of erratic sails, colorful swearing, and Jack scrambling, ultimately their boat resuming its original course.

"But the _Pearl's_ that way!"

"Aye," Jack nodded somewhat testily as he readjusted his hat on his head. "And we're going that way." The angle of his head indicated the mouth of the harbor.

"It's too likely those sods will be looking for us there. If they chose to give chase, it will be the _Pearl_ they pursue," he said in response to her doubtful look. "If they opt for us, we'll bear to the shallows. By the time they go out and around, we'll be long gone." That last thought came with considerable relish and confidence.

"What if the _Pearl_ doesn't get away?" she asked, with visions of cannonade and hand-to-hand battles.

"They will," he said shortly, full of pride.

Kate's initial impulse was to be skeptical, but then how could she question Jack's seamanship. If he claimed their craft could out-distance another, then she had no option than to believe it were so.

For the next bit, Jack busied himself with trimming the sails, loosening here, tightening there, the boat responding with speed and steadiness under his hand. Kate focused on her own task, trying to remember the boat would respond opposite to the direction she steered: push left, veer right; push right, veer left—no, port!—and remembering to duck when she heard "Jibe ho!"

Finally, he slid onto the seat between her and the tiller, and took over.

Gripping the gunwale, she watched Jack maneuver the boat, cutting in an out between ships, using the wind like it was meant for him and him alone, wind and wave willing to be harnessed only so far as to provide safe passage for their prince. On the _Pearl_, he was the captain. Here, in a little skiff, he was a creature of wind and wave, hair whipping, a zealous gleam in his eye and a wickedly happy curl to his mouth.

Soon, they broke out into the open waters. Void of land's impediments, the wind stiffened, driving the little skiff to dig harder against the stronger waves. Once into the freshness of open water, leaving the smells of the harbor behind, their boat proved to have its own special aroma of rotten fish, stagnant water, wood gone wet far too long, and another that was indescribably offensive.

"Dead turtles," Jack said, after one off-handed sniff following her inquiry, and gave her a queer look. "Makes sense, seein's how it's a turtler's boat."

Kate looked around the small confines wondering which clues she had overlooked for that bit of information.

Kate watched the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the _Pearl_ coming out of Sint Maarten's bay; to her disappointment, she saw nothing. A positive note, it meant neither were they being pursued.

"You look worried."

Jack's observation caught her off-guard; she would have liked to have thought that she was doing a better job of hiding her discomfiture. "I've just never been out in this much open water in a boat this small."

"You've been at sea for months and months."

"On a ship."

He grinned. "What, no faith in your captain?"

How could she not? Even as he spoke, he was steering by instinct, anticipating wind and wave as naturally it was for most to breathe.

"No faith in my ability to manage this," she replied uneasily, looking around at their confines.

Chuckling softly, he pulled her onto the seat next to him. "I wouldn't have you out here if I didn't think you could manage."

He kissed her, quickly but gently. "You're the strongest person I have ever met. Something a menial as an ocean isn't going to overcome you."

Leaning against him, she hooked her arm in his, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Where are we headed?"

"Parrot Island. We'll rendezvous with the _Pearl_ there."

"How did Gibbs know where to go?"

He regarded her with a scolding look, disappointed in her failure to comprehend. "Contingency plans, darling. Can't live to be an old pirate without them."

"Do you always have those?" It seemed a bit incredible, but then Jack's ability to slip away seemed far more than just luck.

"Just about," he said, after brief consideration.

"How far is it?"

Closing one eye, he regarded the sails and sky with a mariner's eye. "We should be there sometime tomorrow night, maybe the next morning." Looking down at her, he tilted his head. "What's wrong? Worried?"

"No, I'm not worried; it just seems like a long time in such a little boat." She longed for a portion of Jack's agility. At the moment, moving about the craft seemed highly ill-advised.

He shrugged and batted a casual hand. "Spent loads longer in something considerably smaller," he said glibly. "Besides, if anything goes wrong, a great tide of sea turtles will rise from the waters and carry us to our appointed goals."

Kate had the uneasy feeling that he was only partially jesting on that conjecture.

At one point, Jack pointed with the toe of his boot to a turtle shell amid the rubbish-like flotsam floating in the several inches of water in the boat's bottom. "Better start bailing."

Kate looked down with alarm. "Is it leaking that much?"

"It's a boat," Jack said bluntly, smiling at her discomfiture. "Could be rainwater; could be from hauling in the nets. I don't think it's leaking… much… at least that much… yet," he added on a faltering note.

As the day wore on, the sun bore down. For a small time, their course allowed for the sail to cast a shadow large enough for Kate to sit, and gain a bit of relief. Jack looked at her critically when he saw her squinting in the merciless glare.

"You need a hat."

The comment thankfully came with only that small reference to the dozens of times previous that they had that very discussion. The fact that she wore none bore out how well his insistences had fared. On the _Pearl,_ the sun hadn't been an issue, a means of relief always near to hand. Now, so much nearer the water, the combination of the sun from above, and its reflection off the water, was nearly blinding.

Jack pointedly eyed the turtle shell, and then her head. Kate gave him a narrow look.

"Don't even think it."

Shrugging off her attempt at menacing, he fished into his pocket. "Here, try this then," he said and produced a familiar tin, flicking it open with his thumb.

"What is that stuff?" she asked from a distance, cautiously touching it. She had seen him apply the contents around his eyes daily, sometimes more, and had never ventured to ask about it. Rubbing the small bit between her fingers—instantly staining them black—it had a greasy feel, with an exceptionally fine grit.

"Tallow, wax, a bit of tar or lamp soot… kohl, if it's to be had." Clucking his tongue, he dipped his finger and swiped under both eyes before she could duck away. "It's not killed me all these decades; you'll live to tell about it."

He sat back, laughing at the sight of her as he dropped the tin back into his pocket. "The right barbarian you are, now!"

Seething, it was even more galling for her to have to admit that he was right; she could see.

As the day passed, her thirst grew. It pained her to have to admit to such a weakness; Jack seemed completely unafflicted.

"Have a drink, then," he said, gesturing toward the gourds.

She picked up one from the boat's bottom. It was heavier than expected, and sloshed gratifyingly when she shook it. "There's water in here!"

His face curled with disbelief. "What did you think I was looking for back there?"

"I don't know," she said, wiping her mouth. The water was terribly stale, and tasted of rotten turtle and dusty vegetable, but it was something wet. "The best looking boat, I suppose."

He laughed heartily at that. "Darling, I wasn't choosing a whore. I was looking for a boat." His brows gave a wolfish waggle, the shadow of his hat brim falling across his face. "It's not always the prettiest that provides the best ride."

**Sunset** came in a blazing glory of orange and purple, punctuated by the indigo anvil-head of a thunderstorm. Kate watched the brilliant blues of the Caribbean waters become ominous as they were immersed into darkness, the obsidian satin screening a host of imagined threats. Chanting that it was the same water as it had been a few hours ago, only the light source had changed, helped only slightly.

She spelled Jack as she could—as he would allow—but as the night deepened, she could see fatigue dragging at his shoulders, wincing more often at the increasing discomfort from his ribs and side. Admittedly, they made better headway with Jack at the helm, as opposed to her uneven, jerky management, but he was sagging badly. Absent his usual animation, every movement was an effort. His smile came with less frequency, and with increasing effort.

"Lay your head in my lap and let me try for a while," she finally suggested.

His eyes flickered dubiously, pinched by temptation.

"C'mon," she urged, patting her leg. "Just give me something to steer at; I can manage long enough for you to get a little rest."

"I'll do."

"No, you won't," she pressed. "You're struggling to keep your eyes open now."

"I need to be alert."

"Well, you won't be at this rate," she said, acerbically. "Is it you don't trust me, or is it that stubborn streak that makes you too proud to admit that you're human enough to be tired?"

The darting look from the corner of his eye, said that she had hit a cord. He looked to the sails, and then the sky and water, finally slouching in surrender.

"Very well." Conceding he might be, he wasn't about to go down without a final barb, and grumbled, "Thought I'd left me mum back there."

"Keep a weather eye," he instructed as they switched places. "If the wind comes sudden-like, either let her come about, or loose the sails and she'll drop dead in the water."

Only half-listening, Kate nodded, putting her trust in Jack being awake long before any of those decisions would need to be made.

He leaned over her shoulder as she got situated at the helm, squinting one eye as he pointed. "See the North Star; aim for that. Keep it between the spreader and the shroud."

Tossing his hat aside, he laid down, curving his body into the seat and pillowing his head on her thigh. Still unsettled, he jerked and lurched upright, as if having forgotten something. Hooking her by the neck, he pulled her down for a kiss.

"There," he said softly, his smile sparking gold in the night's dimness. "Need to give the soul a reason to come back to this ol' world."

He lay back down, and exhaled; then gave another, longer and slower. By the third, his head grew heavy, body going lax. With an eye to her beacon, she snuck a look at him. One arm was flung carelessly across her lap in innocent abandon, bejeweled fingers bright. The other curled around underneath his body, his hand ultimately poised at the butt of his pistol. It seemed a summation of his life: carefree, on the one hand, but always on alert on the other.

Cautiously, she pushed the bone that dangled from the side of his head away from his face, along with several errant strands of hair. He stirred, mouth moving in sleep-laden mutterings then quieted. The moon's silver limed his profile, straight and sharp, his eye sockets shadow-blackened to near skeletal. She wondered what his dreams might consist of, if they were as churned and agitated as the rest of his existence.

Peacefulness befell the boat. Even the sea seemed to understand its prince slept, and fell quiet, the night's breeze easing, the waves flattening. She couldn't help but feel she was being watched; she was sure she had caught glimpses of eyes of different shapes of see-dwelling creatures peering up from just below the satin surface, silver bodies flashing in the crystalline black. Preferring to think of them as escorts, she wasn't fully familiar with the nocturnal creatures of the sea, but logic dictated that there had to be as many as there were in the wilds of land.

Instead, Kate focused on the boat. Experimentally working with the tiller, she learned to find the wind, use the waves, and gauge their speed by the vibration through the handle. More and more, she grew to appreciate Jack's love of the water, and wondered if her thrill was anywhere near what he felt. It was intoxicating, bringing her just that much closer to understanding him. She knew better than to think that she would ever achieve his level of knowledge and skill. A bit of his confidence and sense of belonging she would consider a victory.

At times, the sky and water tended to merge, the star-studded velvet reflecting in the glittering slate, one back into the other, until virtually inseparable, only Jack's weight across her lap preventing her from drifting away. The moon finally raised, as a bride-like vision of ivory, the thin skim of clouds her veil, her train the reflection flaring across the waves, rendering a distinction between sea and sky.

Her shoes were thoroughly wet from the water sloshing in the boat's bottom. She grew chilled, grateful for Jack's heavy warmth. At times weariness came over her, prompting imagines lying next to him, luxuriating in the coziness of him curling around her.

"_Are ye well, __mo cridhe?"_

The voice was startling only because it had been many, many months since she had heard Brian's deep, soft Highland clip.

"_Yes, I am."_ She could say that with confidence. Even with a pirate in her lap, and virtually alone in something barely larger than a longboat, on her way to who knew where, she was better than she had been in a long time.

Her fingers brushed Jack's temple as she pushed back an elf-lock that strayed across his face. The corner of his mustache twitched, lifting the corner of his mouth into a faint smile. He stirred, his hand flexing on her leg, languidly tracking up her thigh to briefly squeeze her bottom, and then fell limp.

"_Aye."_ The word came gentle with satisfaction. _"I thought as much. He's a good man; he'll serve ye well."_

A pressure warmer than the night air, brushed her cheek, and he was gone.

**The** first pink twinge of dawn was just blushing the sky when Jack stirred, to Kate's relief. With the coming of dawn, her homing star was quickly fading. The corner of a smile could barely be seen among the folds of her skirt as he hooked an arm around her hips. He grunted softly with contentment, rooting his head into her lap.

"A man couldn't ask for a better smell in the morning," he sighed beatifically.

"Hardly," she scoffed. "I haven't washed in days."

"Trifles, darling." His fingers danced a dismissive tattoo against her side. "A man's sensibilities go far beyond."

Reluctantly groaning, he gave her a final squeeze, and then rose to meet the next morning, a quick check of the surrounding waters, and a glance toward the sails prompting an approving nod..

"You did well, luv! A natural seaman—seawoman—whatever," he finished with a flick of his fingers. "You'll excuse me whilst I made a small donation to Calypso's pool."

Balancing on the gunwale, his back to her, he undid his flies and proceeded to urinate.

"Looks like we should be right on schedule," he announced, scanning the horizon. "Did you know that the Tahitian navigators—and I have personal knowledge, having seen this with me own eyes—can cross the South Seas—with impeccable accuracy, I might add—by only the stars and the swing of their scrotum… what?"

Hearing her sputter, he looked down at his hand, and then back to her.

"Nothing." She blocked her smile with the back of her hand. Avoiding his gaze, she demonstrably focused ahead.

"Yes, you are!" he demanded, hastily refastening his breeches. "You were definitely laughing."

"I'm sorry," she giggled, covering her mouth. "It just strikes me funny that a man can't wait to pull out his cock when he's wooing a woman…"

"Wooing?"

"But when it comes time to pee, he turns his back, as if he's afraid someone will see something."

He planted his hands on his hips and straightened with indignation. "I did not!"

"You did too."

"Did not!"

Her eyes rolled with irritated dismay. "Did, too!"

Taking a breath to retort, he hesitated, narrowing a critical eye. "Has it ever occurred to you, during this perverse and jaded observation, that there could be some minor, yet eloquently significant size issues?"

"Size?"

"Keep your eye on your course, darling," he warned quietly, then reassumed his indignation. "A man's attributes are not always at their best, in the presence of unexpected company."

"You weren't expecting me?"

He stepped down and slid behind her on the bench, wedging between her and the gunwale. Slipping an arm around her waist, he rested his chin on her shoulder.

"Just discussing it has given me a right firmness," he murmured in her ear. Tightening his hold he gave a suggestive nudge with his hips.

"Jack, you can't mean it! In a twenty-foot boat?"

"In a twenty-foot?" he muttered thoughtfully. Frowning with the effort of recall, he ticked them off on his fingers. "Fifteen, sixteen, yes. Eighteen, twenty-one… Nope, never a twenty; you'd be the first," he added brightly.

"Don't you think… ahh!" She gasped when his tongue found her ear. "Jack, we can't…"

Her words faded as he moved his attentions to her neck—_Damn him, he knew every spot_—his hand cupping her breast.

"You forget, luv," he murmured against the nape of her neck. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow; nothing is impossible."

"I'm thinking this whole thing is rather improbable. What about the tiller?" she asked with her final lucid thought.

In a liquid motion, he extricated himself from behind her, and flicked a rope free of its cleat.

"You haven't moved this tiller more than the width of your hand since I woke. Winds are steady; seas are easy. It would appear the gods are with us."

With a flourish, he secured the handle with an impromptu harness. Straightening, he held out his arms in victorious display. "We now have all hands free, to do as we please."

"I'm still not sure about this." Familiar with the phenomena of more than just the sun rising in the morning when Jack was around, she cast a dubious look at the bottom of the boat, awash in several inches of water and flotsam, finding nothing conducive about the current circumstances.

"It's not going to work." She shook her head more adamantly. "No. Not here."

"C'mon, me darling."

"Jack, no."

"You're telling me 'no'?" Baffled, he looked around, as if looking for verification from an bystanders. "Do you realize this is the first time you have ever told me 'no'? Is it something I said?"

"No, it's not you, I just don't see how…"

"Leave the 'how' to me," he coaxed, pulling her with him as he sat. "Believe me, luv, this won't take long."

Leaning against the gunwale, eyes half-lidded in anticipation, the bulge in his breeches as he undid his flies was testimonial to that. Wheedling, he used determination and charm to his advantage; he would be gentle, but he would not be refused.

"Not until you do something with that pistol," she warned, resisting his clutches. "I suggest that we only have one loaded weapon aboard at a time."

He glanced down at himself, proudly smiling. "I've never fired a pistol lest I knew what I was aiming for." He did, however, oblige.

Mindful of the unsteady footing, she hitched her skirts and lowered herself over his thighs. His hands fumbled at the edge of her skirt then slid his up her legs. Fingers splaying wide, he cupped the curve of her bottom.

Grunting softly, his eyes slowly closed. "Slippery as kelp."

Already eager, the silky length came up quick, rigid with but a few strokes of her fingers, and then she guided him home, the force causing her to gasp. At first she had intended to prolong this as long as she could, deny, make him beg. The day before had been a farewell, mourning a loss. This was a celebration, flesh that thought there would be no more wanting doubly so now.

His grip tightened on her hips, he slipped lower, for better penetration. They moved together, the rocking of the boat echoing their motions. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, head dropping between her arms, she rode him, the roughness of his breeches abrading the tender skin of her thighs.

His hips arched against hers and her senses spiraled downward, building, wanting more, needing just that little bit more, feverishly clutching at him, begging to be taken. She teetered for an eternal moment on a precipice then fell over the edge to her own shattering conclusion, his release lost in the throes of hers. Collapsing on top of him, they laid boneless, struggling for the breath that would bring them back to lucidity.

At length, she felt him smile against her cheek. "Now I can add a twenty-foot boat to me list."

"Does this mean that I'll have my own place in the Captain Jack Sparrow record book?"

He laughed. Holding her hips, he moved inside of her. "Darling, you've a book all your own."

His humor dissolved; eyes half-lidded and hazed with their love-making, searching hers.

"And there will be no others."

** Epilogue**

**Kate** sat with her head resting on Jack's shoulder, his arm hooked around hers. He had a tendency to slip off into his thoughts, leaving her to hers. It was her first time to experience the quiet solitude of sailing. The skiff bore its small collection of sounds, but it was nothing compared to the relative cacophony of planks and rigging of a ship. Here was nothing more than the gurgling rush of water past the bow, with the occasional slap of an erratic wave, and the gentle creak of the shrouds. Jack had a tendency to drift off into his own thoughts, leaving her to her own: wondering what lay ahead, but in a sense, not really caring.

At one point, she looked skyward, checking the sun. "We're heading north?" she asked, idly.

"For a bit, and then west."

"And then where?"

His arm tightened possessively around her shoulders. "Away… until we slide off the map."

_Away._ The word hung in the air, heavy with longing and uncertainty. He looked off, his profile dark and sharp against the azure. Kate held her breath, waiting and wondering. She was afraid to think it, but there it was, ramming about in her mind like a boar in a pantry: she was glad the Company was chasing them, either one. It gave them a reason, a common goal. In a sense, it made no difference where they were heading. She was with him; they were together. The rest was just… trifles.

To a degree, she hoped that it was she that the Company men sought. It would mean less of a threat for Jack, and that was fine. She knew there was the danger of him doing something rash—no power on earth could stop him from that, when he took the notion—but if they were seeking her, it removed the target from his chest.

"I'm fancying Cartagena, at the moment," he finally said, a bit surprised at his own admission. The dark-framed eyes slid a sidelong look, worry lurking. "Are you game?"

She had only a remote notion of where Cartagena was—someplace in the general vicinity of Mayans, gold and South America—but that was of little consequence.

"Well, at least I speak the language," she said with some relief, recalling her first torturous weeks on Sint Maarten, coping with her faulty French. Her heart beat a little faster at the prospect of what lay ahead, and doing it at Jack's side… for a while, at any rate, until the wanderlust took him away again.

"See horizon?"

His hand swept a general arc. He pressed his lips to her forehead, the walnut-colored eyes going bright with devilment.

"It's yours, Kittie. Let's go see what's on it."

"Which is?"

"Not here," he said with a loathing look back toward the receding silhouette of Sint Maarten. "Somewhere that is very far from His Majesty's Royal Navy, or his blessed authorities, _or_ the East India Trading Company. South. West… Away…"

************************_This concludes "Treasured Treasures," but certainly not the adventures of Jack and Kate. I'll be taking a bit of a hiatus, just for six weeks or so, while I divert myself with another project. Then Jack and Kate will be back. I hope you all remember them, and join them as soon as you may. _

_Thank you, everyone, for such a faithful and supportive following!! I truly appreciate it. Don't be afraid to jerk my chain, if it appears that I digress!_

_Keep a weather eye on the horizon!_


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